


Transhumance

by tumblweed



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 59,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumblweed/pseuds/tumblweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Transhumance (n); the action or practice of moving livestock from one grazing ground to another in a seasonal cycle, typically to lowlands in winter and highlands in summer.</p><p>Set in 1957. Delphine, a farm animal veterinarian, meets Cosima, a rancher's daughter. The two spend a summer together in Wyoming's Big Horn mountains, tending to a herd of sheep.</p><p>Loosely based on the book/film Brokeback Mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Un

The shrill of the telephone startles me from a lovely, vivid dream. My eyelids are still heavy, images of long dancing grass framing a clear blue sky present in the residual dream state. Reluctantly, I am pulled from the meadow and into waking life.

 

I wipe the sleep from the corners of my eyes and throw back the comforter, the high-pitched ring stinging my brain and luring me into the kitchen. Christophe is snoring lightly, face down and limbs sprawled, unphased somehow by the incessant bell. How he can sleep through it, I have no idea. The sun has not come up yet, but the blue light of the moon guides me through the still unfamiliar house and I don't knock my knees on anything like I thought I would.

 

The linoleum is cool under my feet, evening chill blowing in through the open windows and rustling the floral fabric curtains as I lift the phone from where it is mounted on the wall.

 

"Hello?" I croak, then clear my sleepy throat.

 

"Is this Delphine Cormier?" The man's voice replies in a thick American accent. The call is local.

 

"This is."

 

"Sorry to bother you so late, ma'am, but I got your phone number from Miss Violet down at the clinic in town. She said you might be able to help with a lambing...situation we've got down here." He sounds nervous, but warm.

 

"How long has the ewe been in labor?"

 

"'Bout an hour now. My daughter thinks the front legs are twisted back. We can see the nose."

 

"Where are you located?" I ask, twirling the tightly coiled phone cord around my index finger.

 

"About forty minutes west of Buffalo, just off route 16."

 

I squeeze my eyes shut and mentally map their location, the terrain still unfamiliar. They must be nearly into the Big Horn mountain range, at least near the foothills. "I will be there as soon as I can. Thirty minutes at most," I say. I am farther than thirty minutes, but there won't be anyone else on the road at this time of night. Speed limits are more _suggestion_ than law when driving on country roads.

 

"Thank you, ma'am," he says. "We're the ranch after mile marker 403. Paradise Ranch."

 

 _Paradise_ , I think, and remember the meadow. The rustling grass.

 

"See you soon," I say, and rest the earpiece in the metal cradle.

 

I shuffle back into the bedroom, drawing in lungfuls of cold night air to wake myself up. I pull the white cotton nightgown over my head and dress myself in canvas pants and a cotton t-shirt. Nothing that could be ruined in the messy process that awaits me. I pull my hair back into a ponytail after working out some of the knots with my fingers, taming the curls that always seemed to eventually spring loose.

 

"Are you leaving?" I hear from behind me, his voice low and in our mother tongue. There is comfort in speaking French at home, so we do for the most part. Christophe is awake and looking at me. I can see his silhouette against the headboard, teeth and the whites of his eyes glowing blue.

 

"Oui, there is a ewe in hard labor. They need help with the delivery."

 

"Mm," he groans and rubs his face with his palms, beckoning me back to the bed. "How long will you be?"

 

I slip on boots and tie the laces up around my shins. "However long it takes."

 

I sit at the edge of our bed, my weight dipping the mattress. My hand is at the center of his bare chest, settled on coarse hair and warm skin, and he covers it with his own. "I'm sorry about last night."

 

"No, don't be sorry. I know that I will get used to it here. I'm homesick."

 

"This is a new start for us," he says. And he is right. The La Tuque I am homesick for no longer exists. Wyoming is our way out. "Give it a chance."

 

He squeezes my hand and I can see the outline of his lips purse into a pitiful grimace. I have to look away, somewhere else, so I settle on our hands. He is the one running towards something—a new job, specialized and innovative. Though we are moving in the same direction, I am running _away_. And I know that he pities me for it.

 

It's hard to look at him when his features are colored that way. It feels like charity, not empathy.

 

"I have to go," I say abruptly, and pull my hand from his as I stand.

 

"Drive safely," he calls in French, but I am already halfway out the door, twirling the truck keys between my fingers.

 

I start the engine and the worn seat chugs beneath me. In the rearview mirror, the horizon gives birth to a glowing morning sun. The sky is all pink and orange, bordered by the mountains that surround me. Their peaks and falls like a jagged frame to a painting I've seen a thousand times but always looks a little bit different.

 

The sunrise here is not so different from La Tuque. A familiar comfort sweeps through me as I think of watching it rise on the front porch with Maman. I was a child then, and she was healthy, vibrant, carrying breakfast outside to eat with me curled up on the swing. I remember her hair swept up in a bun, her arm wrapped around my shoulders.

 

"Every sunrise is a new day," she would tell me. "Don't carry around yesterday's muck."

 

As the dark red truck hurls down the empty country highway, I look at my hands, fingers resting in the steering wheel divots. I slide the wedding band off of my ring finger and slip it into my pocket, knowing that my hands must be free of jewelry for lambing. There's not even a tan line yet, no dent in my skin like I thought there would be. I suppose it takes longer than two weeks to form that type of mark.

 

I pass mile marker 400 and immediately see a sign for my destination up ahead. _Paradise Ranch_ , it reads in big white letters, a cartoonish herd of sheep painted below. _Exit in 3 Miles._

 

After the exit, I am on a single-lane dirt road, the truck jostling me over the uneven terrain and kicking up a trail of dense, dry dirt behind me. The front gate is open, a huge white farm house in the foreground and behind it, a barn. The whole campus is surrounded by pasture, wooden fences separating herds of grazing sheep, horses, and cows. A group of people are gathered at the propped-open barn door, and they all turn to watch me park, kicking up dust with their boots. One man donning a cowboy hat and a full, grey beard shuffles over to greet me as I slam the door shut, equipment bag slung over my shoulder.

 

"You must be Miss Cormier," he says warmly, extending his hand. I shake it and he beckons me towards the barn. "Pleasure to meet you. Thanks for coming so quickly. I'm Ennis, this is my ranch. Follow me, she's just in here."

 

"The pleasure is all mine," I say, the phrase familiar after hearing it from other locals over the past two weeks.

 

I don't bother to correct him that I am a _Mrs_. now. It's still so new, the change in title so awkward in my mind. A woman keeping her last name after marriage is unheard of, but I have challenged Christophe, delaying the paperwork at every step. Cormier is my connection to Maman. It means I was hers.

 

It seems unthinkable to fill out some forms and take on the name Moulin, but Christophe assures me that I will feel differently in the future, when there are children involved.

 

Once we are in the barn, I hear the familiar bleets of a laboring ewe and find her on the floor, nestled in a bed of hay. I set down my bag and pull out a pair of sterile gloves for examination. The inside of the barn is still dim, but lit at the corner with a work lamp clamped to the inside of a small window. Ennis watches me from the corner, curious and warm.

 

"We try to keep everyone out of here as much as possible. Don't want to stress the girl out."

 

"Yes, that's smart. We need to keep her as calm as possible."

 

"My wife—she used to do all the ranch lambing. Was hopin' for no complications this spring, since she's not around the ranch these days. This ol' girl, though. She's givin’ us a tough time." He chuckles to himself.

 

"It appears as though the lamb is giving _her_ a hard time as well," I reply, examining her hind quarters. I can see the nose, but no front hooves below. "Your daughter was correct. The front legs are back."

 

"Oh, she'll love to hear that. She loves being right." He laughs again to himself. "Is she going to be okay?"

 

"Yes, it's a simple fix, but I must act quickly. We have already lost time during my drive here."

 

I coat my hand and arm in medical grade lubricant and attempt to reposition the lamb's limbs. I cup one tiny hoof in my hand and bring it forward, repositioning with ease. I reach for the second hoof and the ewe startles, attempting to escape me. I know it must be uncomfortable for her.

 

"I have to move the other one," I say. "Can you keep her calm?"

 

"I can."

 

I hear her before I see her, the voice behind me friendly and warm, like Ennis. I feel her brush by me and she appears to my left, gliding around to settle at the ewe's head. She kneels down in the hay to take the sheep gently by the neck.

 

"Easy girl," she says, voice low and soothing. Her hair falls in long, dark waves around her face, over her shoulders. Glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, framing caramel-colored eyes. She looks up at me from behind them and smiles so wide that her eye teeth show at the corners of her lips.

 

"Hi, I'm Cosima," she waves. My stomach drops.

 

"Delphine," I say. "Enchantée." The French spills from my mouth before I catch it.

 

"Enchantée," she laughs. "So, you're French, huh? Is that the accent?"

 

"Québécois." I peel my eyes away from hers to try again to move the hoof, the ewe settled by Cosima's presence.

 

Ennis shifts in the corner. "This is the one I was tellin' you about, Miss Cormier. The daughter who likes being right."

 

"I think you mean the daughter who is _usually_ right," Cosima teases.

 

"You think you're real clever."

 

"I was clever when I was six." She is smiling at him, then at me, enjoying the comfortable jesting. Their rapport feels practiced and well-worn. Like old friends. “Get off your feet, dad. I can handle this.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“You’re trusting me with the whole flock this summer. I think I can handle the one.”

 

Ennis laughs and tips his hat at me, shaking his head at his daughter’s logic, and leaves.

 

The hoof is in my hand and the lamb is pulling against me, resisting the necessary shift. I push against its nose to offer more internal space for movement and am able to pull the hoof forward and out. I check to make sure that they are both resting beneath its chin.

 

"The lamb is in position. Shouldn't be long now," I say, moving away to pull off the gloves, rolling them down from my elbows.

 

Cosima stands when I do, patting the ewe gently on the head. "Thank you," she says. “You’re literally a life saver.”

 

She is so much smaller than me, shorter and more compact. It is easier to see now that we are both standing. Her jeans are tight at her hips, but hang loose at the knees, gathered around her ankles on top of rubber work boots. She smooths down her collared flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and sweeps her hair back from her face in one swift motion of her hand. One finger hovers above her head, tracing the line of her part.

 

I lean against the barn wall and watch her move towards me with an unexpected strut and a grin. She walks with purpose, confidence. I feel her next to me, our elbows nearly touching from the close proximity. But she is watching the ewe intently, eyes narrowed in concentration.

 

“I remember the first time I saw this. A birth, I mean.”

 

“Yes?” I reply, curious.

 

“Yeah, I was maybe five or six. It wasn’t complicated like this one. Really straight-forward. My mom was there with a towel, knees all covered in bloody sack fluid. She was just…waiting. Holding this towel, ready to catch this baby lamb.” She smiles to herself, eyes stuck on the ewe as it shifts slightly. “The head was out, and the hooves, and—keep in mind, I was five—but I looked her and I said, ’Mama, can’t we just pull it out?’”

 

Cosima turns her head with a grin, her eyes meeting mine. Something about it makes my breath catch in my throat and I suppress a cough.

 

“She told me to wait. That she could do it on her own and to do it _for_ her would be an insult. She said, ‘We only intervene if her life is in danger.’”

 

“She’s right,” I say.

 

“She usually is. Runs in the family,” she grins, pleased with herself.

 

“So? What happened?”

 

“Oh, just like she said, the ewe did her duty. The lamb was born without a hitch. But what really stuck with me was my mom’s respect for the ewe’s autonomy. Her power.”

 

“Yes,” I agree, letting her words sink in along with her eyes, which seem to be magnetically drawn to my pupils.

 

The ewe rustles again and moans, her head bowing and raising, twisting to look behind herself. Cosima and I both turn to watch her, the lamb’s head sliding from her covered in thick red mucus, legs extended forward. It meets the hay gently, the rest of its body following swiftly behind until it clambers lamely against the ground, attempting to stand. The ewe finds her young easily and begins to clean off the placenta with her tongue.

 

I lean down to find my pack, zip it up and sling it over my shoulder.

 

“She can take it from here,” I say, and Cosima nods. “The lamb should be nursing within the hour.”

 

“The miracle of birth, huh? New beginnings, infinite possibilities and all that?”

 

I nod and watch her lips curl into another smile. She looks away from me and leans forward with her hands in her pockets, looking unexpectedly bashful, pink in her cheeks. She clears her throat and strides towards the door, then turns back suddenly at the threshold.

 

“Are you hungry? It’s nearly breakfast time and I’m making pancakes.”

  
I feel my teeth gnawing at my bottom lip. My chest is inflated with anxious air, holding it without cause. “I would like that very much.”


	2. Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to update until Friday, but couldn't wait any longer. I think I'm as excited to share this story as some of you are to read it. Enjoy :)
> 
> Comments and feedback are always appreciated!!!

With the weight of the bag on my shoulder, I follow Cosima across the lawn and up the front porch stairs. Beneath my boots, chipped blue paint reveals wood worn down from heavy traffic. Two huge windows sit on either side of the front door as she pushes inside.

  
  


Through the living room and down a long narrow hallway, I follow her. Family portraits line the bead board walls. I pause to admire each one, noting their chronological progression. In ten steps, two infants start out cradled in the arms of a young Ennis, then grow into adolescents, then young adults. In the final photo, two women with identical faces stand side by side next to a massive tractor wheel. Only one obvious physical dissimilarity separate the two—Cosima's glasses. Her grin is larger, too. Brighter. The other woman wears a scowl, even as she’s smiling.

  
  


"This is your sister?" I ask,  curiosity triumphing over tact. 

  
  


"Ehhh, yeah. Sarah."

  
  


"You are twins?"

  
  


"What gave it away?" she asks me with a laugh. Cosima twists and stands on the tips of her toes to pull a small sack of flour from the top of the cupboard, then a mixing bowl and a whisk. "Take a seat. I'm quick with the batter."

  
  


From the kitchen table, I watch her, movements fluid and hurried. She ties her loose hair back in a quick bun, then adds sprinkles of various white powders to the mix, cracks two eggs on top with practiced ease. Without using one measuring cup, she whisks away at it, adding milk along the way to thin the batter. 

  
  


I find myself lost in her rhythm, her movements almost a dance. It's hypnotizing.

  
  


"Yeah, Sarah..." she starts, her voice pulling me from my trance. "She’s the wild type. Always on some new, breakneck adventure."

  
  


“Oh,” I say. I don’t want to pry. 

  
  


“Yeah, she’s… Lord knows where. Last I heard, she was in Florida or something. She’s...” Cosima pauses and shakes her head, like she’s holding herself back. I feel my throat catch in tandem with hers.

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“Selfish,” she says simply. 

  
  


Ennis is in the doorway suddenly, and Cosima visibly straightens. There is an undeniable warmth between them, the way he shuffles into the room and tugs her into a hug and a kiss on the forehead. But, she’s not talking about Sarah anymore and I can’t help but notice the shift. 

  
  


"Blueberries or no blueberries?" she asks, eyes smiling at me, holding a fist full of tiny purple fruit over the bubbling batter. 

  
  


“Blueberries, s’il vous plait.”

  
  


“You got it. And I already know you want some, Dad.”

  
  


“Thankya, darlin’,” he replies, sitting down with me at the table, running the tablecloth between his fingers, his nailbeds a permanent shade of grey from a lifetime of ranch work. “So, you’re French Canadian, eh?” He laughs at his own joke and Cosima rolls her eyes from behind him, flipping the browned cakes over and causing them to sizzle on the other side. 

  
  


“Oui, my husband and I were just married and moved to the states last week. He is working on the new oil rigs just outside of Buffalo.” 

  
  


“That’s good work if you can get it,” Ennis replies. “How long you been lambin’ or otherwise?”

  
  


“A few years. We had several flocks and farms where I lived before and I started as a child, really.”

  
  


Ennis grunts in agreement, his voice low and gruff. He scratches his palm over his beard and I watch Cosima’s dance continue in my periphery. She’s pulling plates from the upper cabinets, stacking cakes onto the spatula. “Newlywed, huh? If you weren’t a missus, I’d ask Ms. Violet if she could spare you from the clinic this summer.” His eyes are copper, like both of his daughters’. I wonder what else they share in common. Their warmth, certainly. Their immediate kindness.

  
  


“Dad—” Cosima asserts, cutting off the thought and setting a pile of steaming pancakes in front of us each. I feel a spark of tension there, as if she doesn’t want him to continue.

  
  


“What do you mean?” I ask. Ennis holds the fork in his closed palm and swashes syrup over the stack with the other. Cosima sits with us quickly and leans across the plaid table cloth, her body in a gentle stretch to take the syrup from her father’s hand.

  
  


Ennis’ mouth is full, so Cosima answers for him. “I’m taking the flock up the mountain this summer. He’s gone up with my mama the past few years.” She tilts her head at Ennis, who is silently shoveling another stack of sticky cake in his mouth. “But she isn’t well this summer, so I’m going up to help.”

  
  


“ All my boys have their work cut out for them tendin’ the ranch and the lowlands. I don’t want her up there with some hired hand I don’t know.  _ Unsavory  _ intentions towards my beautiful daughter and such.” Cosima rolls her eyes again and the corners of her jaw bulge slightly. She’s clenching her teeth, I’m sure of it. “Sure could use someone who knows a thing or two about treating animals. We don’t have any livestock to spare to Mountain Devils or injury.”

  
  


“Mountain Devils?” I ask. The combination of terms is unfamiliar to me, though I know both words in English. 

  
  


“He means coyotes.” Cosima looks right at me, picks up a stray blueberry on the tip of her fork, and pops it in her mouth. The way her lips move as she chews reminds me of her hands and her body, dancing like the long blowing grass in my dream. “We’ll find someone, Daddy. And you forget Mama taught me some things. I can always go up myself. Nothing up there to hurt me when I’ve got a rifle in the cabin.”

  
  


“I can check,” I blurt, and both of them turn to me, Cosima with a fork of purple-stained pancakes just at her lips. “With Christophe, I mean. How long would it be? The transhumance? Or do you have another word for it?”

  
  


Cosima smiles, lowers her hand and the silver fork  _ clinks _ against the plate. “Nah, we say that, just without the accent.” Her eyes, even from behind her frames, twinkle at me. “We’re in the highlands for three or four months, depending on the weather. I’m heading up next week.”

  
  


“Three months,” I echo, nodding. “I will ask.”

  
  


“Permission?” she asks, her lips curling in challenge. 

  
  


“Non, if he needs me home. And I should check with Ms. Violet, too. She only just hired me.”

  
  


I look between the two of them, Ennis chewing the last bite of his pancakes, bits of syrup stuck in his beard, and Cosima, long wisps of hair fallen from the bun and wavy in front of her ears. She pushes up her glasses with the tips of her fingers, settling them back on the bridge of her nose. It’s so absentminded; I am sure it’s a habit.

  
  


“Not much to do up there. Mostly we guide the herd to new grazing areas every couple of days and they mow down the vegetation, keep the ecosystem in check. Lots of time to sit and think, or read. That’s how I spent all my summers up there as a kid.”

  
  


Time to sit and think. Time to be peaceful. It sounds like a reprieve, especially after the funeral, the wedding, the move. 

  
  


It feels like something to run  _ towards _ . 

  
  


Cosima clears the table after we finish eating and walks me back to the barn. I check to make sure that the lamb is nursing, and he is, milk foaming at the corners of his mouth.

  
  


Rusted hinges protest as the truck door opens with a  _ creak _ . Cosima lingers by to bid me farewell, hand resting at the top of the window, arm raised in a casual lean. 

  
  


"Like I said, nothin' to do up there. Think if it's really what you want. I run my mouth a lot and I just might drive you crazy."

  
  


"You might," I laugh, and she smiles with me. "But I might make a friend as well."

  
  


"Yeah, I guess," she smirks, looks down at the tips of her rubber boots as she digs the toe into the earth. 

  
  


"It would be nice to make a friend in the brave new world."

  
  


"Don't go getting all sentimental, now. It's just a job." 

  
  


For a second I wonder if I seem too eager, if the friendly warmth she'd been radiating from that first moment in the barn was simply the projection of a lonely woman in a new place surrounded by new faces and strange accents. I worry I'm imposing, that I am making mountains out of molehills concerning our future friendship. Ennis brought it up, not Cosima. Maybe she really does want to go up on her own. 

 

But then, our eyes meet and I see the slightest curl of her upper lip, the beginning of her cheeky smile. The tensed muscles in my shoulders loosen and I can breathe once more. 

  
"Take care, Delphine. Safe trip home," she says, and slams the door shut.

 


	3. Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is a mini chapter to get you all through the weekend. A bit of exposition :)

 

It looks so lonely, the way our small country house sits crooked with the road and separate from our neighbors by a field on each side. I pull into the driveway, a mixture of gravel and grass crunching under the tires. It’s nearly midday and the sun is out, drying the patches of mud grown the night before.

  


Coming home doesn't quite feel like it used to, like rolling through neighborhoods and parking in front of the big blue house on Rue Montcalm.

  


The homes in La Tuque are so close together, built in rows on tree-lined streets. All of the inhabitants are invested in each other and, consequently, town gossip. There is also an intimacy born from close proximity and limited newcomers. People don't leave La Tuque.

  


Our impromptu departure caused an uproar in the gossip mill. The insular nature of the town offered my life up as public knowledge, a topic of discussion. Whispers of Maman's illness, her death, and the shotgun wedding trailed behind me for weeks before we left.

  


Some whispers were kind. _Those two kids were inevitable. It's about time something pushed them to tie the knot._

  


Some were full of pity. _Poor girl, it’s so sad about her mother. You know, she never knew her father._

  


And some, mean-spirited. _I bet she's only marrying him out of necessity. Her mother didn't leave her anything behind - no money, no house._

  


I walk in the front door, screen shutting gently behind me. Christophe is on the couch, legs apart and a bowl of cereal balanced on one palm between them. The television dial is tuned to an American sitcom, one that plays sporadically in Québec. He’s laughing and chewing, his sleeves rolled up around his biceps, face clean-shaven and hair in a dark, wavy mess. He is so handsome.

  


I watch him from the doorway and remember the little boy from up the street with the narrow blue eyes and freckles. He would catch frogs and keep them in his pocket for hours just to show me, bring me mason jars full of lightning bugs. I remember playing hide and seek, Christophe chasing me down the middle of the street, cars honking at us all the way to my front porch. On days she didn’t have to work, Maman would be waiting for us with fresh juice and sweets. While we caught our breath, she would ruffle his hair. “Take care of my daughter,” she would say in hurried French. “I cannot handle another child, so I’m hiring you to be her big brother.”

  


“How much does it pay?” he would ask, and each time, Maman would swat the back of his head.

  


“My daughter is priceless and _you_ want _pay_? Her presence is not enough for you?”

  


I can see him perfectly in that moment, the sun shining at the side of his face and lighting up the dark red tones in his hair. He is crinkling his nose at me and laughing, bringing a macaron to his lips with fingernails dirty from playing in the earth.

  


When we grew older, at the insistence of our neighbors, Christophe’s protection over me turned into romance. It was hard to see him that way at first, the little boy with the crinkled, freckled nose. The one Maman called my brother, even in his absence.

  


His freckles have since faded into a tan across his nose, but it’s easy to remember him as my childhood friend, mon frère.

  


Christophe brought me flowers on our first date—a bouquet of tulips—and Maman put them in a glass jar, on display in the front window. It was the second summer of my training as a farm veterinary assistant and Christophe was home from university. After years of tip-toeing around the notion, we decided to try. The summer air that night was uncharacteristically warm for the climate. He walked me through the streets of La Tuque, talking all night and drinking espresso. Nothing felt different from before, really, until he kissed me.

  


We were together for a year before she fell ill. And when she did, her death came quickly. He was there when they took her away, holding my hand and driving me to the funeral home.

  


Christophe asked me to come with him to Buffalo the day after Maman’s funeral. He received a job offer fresh out of trade school. An oil company building a new rig in the American midwest saw his sketches, the innovative nature of his designs, and enticed him with US citizenship. “Come with me,” he asked me over sandwiches at our favorite bakery. “I know you, Delphine. I can see that this town is no good for you.”

  


“I will think about it.”

  


“If you want to come, we have to be married. It’s the only way I can get you citizenship.”

  


Marrying Christophe, a man I already loved, seemed a small price to pay to escape La Tuque. Even if it was too soon. Even if I was being pushed towards marriage instead of pulled. Maman’s ghost haunted me in every shop, on every sidewalk, even in the faces of our neighbors. I couldn’t go anywhere without seeing her. _Poor girl,_ I would hear from behind me. _Twenty-three years old with no parents left? Can you imagine?_  

 

  
With limited time and no one to walk me down the aisle, we made quick work of our union and married at the courthouse on the Tuesday morning after she died. I wore a white sun dress, my hair tied up in curls, and Christophe in a wool suit jacket, stubble on his chin. His family came to bear witness, his mother and father and younger brother standing in well-pressed outfits, smiling at me with sadness tugging down the corners of their eyes. 


	4. Quatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhhhh the agonyyyyyyy.
> 
> all feedback and comments are appreciated :D

Our living room is sparse, still. There is only the couch, television, and one standing lamp in the corner. The walls are painted white, but the area around the wood-burning stove is yellow and dingy from smoke. The windows are still open and gently blowing the curtains, but the air rolling in is considerably warmer than it was at five am.

 

I set down my equipment bag and the noise draws his gaze.

 

“How did it go?” he asks me mid-bite, then turns back to the show.

 

“Very well. Mother and baby are safe and healthy.”

 

“Hmm,” he nods, and takes another scoop of his cereal.

 

I lean back against the wall and unlace my boots, prying them away from my stubborn heel and tossing them on the ground. Dried mud from the ranch knocks loose from the treads and sprinkles across our wood floor.

 

“Christophe,” I say, calling his attention from the television. I walk to the edge of the worn plaid couch and rest against the arm. He looks up at me, his eyes a darker blue now than they were as a child. “The ranch owner offered me a job for the summer.”

 

“You already have a job.”  


“The clinic hired me as-needed, and I have only just started. I hardly think Ms. Violet would miss me.”

 

“Well, yes, at the clinic, too. But I mean _here_ , at the house. You are my wife.” His eyes are drawn back to the sitcom, the live audience's laughter in the background.

  
“The owner asked me to go into the mountains with their herd. I would be responsible for all of their health. Births, injuries. It's a good opportunity to establish myself in town."

 

"What about me?" he asks, and looks back up at me. He sets his empty bowl on the couch beside him. My persistence has caught his attention.

 

"About _you_? I should give up this chance to stay home and wash your laundry? Make your dinner?” I shake my head, exasperated laugh puffing from between my lips.

 

“Non, that's not what I mean."

 

“So, what, then?” My words are sharp, but my voice is calm. My arms are crossed over my chest, fingers worrying at my biceps.

 

His eyes dart back and forth between my face and the air above my head in pursuit of an answer. I read once that looking left signals the searching of one's memory, and right, the fabrication of a lie. His eyes, though, are unreadable. Twitching.

 

“Delphine, we were only married last week! Without even a proper honeymoon."

 

"It was not a proper marriage, either. We were in a rush to move here, start your new job and come to this life designed for _you_. This job—it's something for _me_."

 

"I understand, but - "

 

“I am not asking permission,” I say, echoing Cosima’s earlier sentiment, suddenly hating the sarcastic way she asked me. She’d been so presumptuous, smirking at me from across the table.

 

While my immediate annoyance is directed at her, I remind myself it is in fact Christophe who is implying that he holds the power to deny my request. He's the one assuming it _is_ a request.

 

He looks at me, eyebrows scrunching in confusion, then relaxing. He rests his hand on my knee, squeezing it in his palm. “Look, if you really need to go, then go. Maybe some time away will bring back the Delphine I used to know.” He looks hopeful, like he’s expecting the mountains to heal me, to make me someone I no longer am. As if it is my wifely duty to be something specific and familiar for him.

 

I feel angry heat creeping up my neck, the uncontrollable flush through my limbs. I spring from the couch and onto my legs, muscles already tight. I need to move, to put distance between our bodies.

 

“The Delphine you used to know?” I spit. “Let me guess, the ‘old Delphine’ is more compliant than the one you’re getting now, and you want her back?”

 

His mouth flaps open and shut, his hands raised in defense and eyes wide. I watch him there, frozen, caught in the embarrassing web of his own truth. _More distance_ , my body tells me, and I walk towards the door. My chest is so full of anxious air, it might pop like a balloon and rip me down the middle.

 

“Wait, wait, Delphine!” he calls. He stands to catch me, his arm extended to my shoulder in a gentle grasp. He has always been the too-calm one in a fight. I think it's meant to be soothing, but I feel like a startled horse he's talking down from a spook. “Come here, please? Just sit down.” He falls back to the couch, patting the open cushion, eyes pleading and wide. I shake my head and stay standing, arms crossed. He sighs at my resistance, but continues. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve just been different since…”

 

“Since when? Which part of the hell that has been the last year of my life? Please, _enlighten me_.”

 

He drops his head in thought, like he's searching for the right words, words that will not set me off. But I am already loaded, cocked, ready to shoot. He forgets how well I know him, that I can hear the words before they ever leave his lips.

 

“I know your mother’s death has been difficult, but - ”

 

I was right.

 

“You _don’t_ know how it feels, Christophe!” My hands tremble under my arms, then spring forward, unable to be contained.

 

“I was there, Delphine. I never once left your side.”

 

“But you didn’t lose your mother. You didn’t lose anything at all. All of this?” I look around the room at the television, the couch, the kitchen doorway and further to the telephone, with its curled and tangled cord. “This is yours. This house—this town. Every reason I am here right now and all of our circumstances are because _you_ made them so.”

 

“But, this town and this house are _yours_ , too. I bought this place for you! Because I know you will take care of it so wonderfully, that you’ll build us a home fit to raise a family.” His voice is so low, his words slow in comparison to mine. It's infuriating to watch him masquerade as the clear-headed saint. “After your mother passed away, there was nothing left for you in La Tuque, you know that. I wanted to take you away, give you a chance for a start fresh.”

 

“How very considerate of you.”

 

“Don’t be like that.”

 

“Please tell me, what am I being like?”

 

“You’re—you’re twisting everything I’m saying! You’re making me into this monster, this controlling and - and manipulative monster. Can’t you see I’m on your side? You deserve so much, Delphine. I want to give you everything.”

 

“You are making _yourself_ look like a monster. I’m showing you a reflection and you don’t like it!”

 

“Delphine, I am your husband—I support you every day. I took you away from La Tuque, I gave you this home, I took a job that makes enough money that you don’t have to work! I am trying to give you everything.”

 

“But everything you have given me has been on _your_ terms! It has been what _you_ think I need. Don’t you understand? I need this _one_ thing. I need this for myself and I’m _telling_ you that I _need_ it!”

 

I am yelling by the final words, my eyes burning with unshed tears, noise paining even my own ears. The ferocity of emotion startles me.

 

I didn’t know the depth of how I felt until I started saying it.

 

“Okay! Okay. _Shhhhh_ ,” he stands, reaching out to calm my vibrating shoulders, my stiffened arms. He strokes at my hair with his heavy hand, attempting to settle me as Cosima did with the laboring ewe. “I get it. You need this and you need my support. So, I support you.”

 

“Truly?”

 

"Come here," he says, and pulls me in for a kiss, his arms around my waist in a vice grip. And suddenly, it occurs to me: I am his only link to home as well. I am the only thing he brought with him from La Tuque. I am the only one who truly knows him in this small town. And when I leave in one week, he will be as alone as I feel now.

 

His kiss is gentle, like genuine apology. The pokey hair on his upper lip has been cut away and he smells like aftershave. After a few simple kisses, he pulls away to rest his forehead against mine. “I love you, you know? I only want you to be happy.”

 

“I know. I know.” And I _do_ know. I know he wants me happy, but he cannot feel the dissonance between my fulfillment and my compliance. To him, they are one in the same.

 

To know someone well, over a lifetime, breeds the desire for homeostasis. Once they believe they know you completely, the relationship thrives on resisting change.

 

For Christophe, I must remain static.

 

Growing up, I could see the Barrage de La Tuque from the end of our street. It is a large dam on Rivière Saint-Maurice, the water powerhouse that La Tuque quickly became known for in Québec. As children, Christophe and I would stand by at the edge of the fence and throw stones at it, aiming for the steel retaining wall and the foaming spouts of water.

  
It felt so close at the time, but now I know we were at least a kilometer away. We couldn't even feel the mist.

 


	5. Cinq

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are ya'll feelin' this story?
> 
> They're almost in the highlands. Almost. I promise.

“Are you ready?” Christophe asks me from the doorway to our bedroom. His arms are raised above his head, hanging from the top of the door frame with a warm smile gracing his mouth. I sit at the edge of our bed, wrinkling the simple blue blanket pulled tight over the mattress. I run my hands over the contents of the dark green rucksack balanced on my thighs, checking that I’ve packed ample clothing and toiletries for the summer.

  


“Oui, I think I have packed everything that Cosima suggested.”

  


“Alright-y! Best get going, now, ya hear?” he says in English, with the best Wyoming accent he can muster. He laughs at himself, eyes crinkling at the corners, and I join him with a giggle of my own. Pack buckled shut and slung across my shoulders, I meet him at the doorway and hold his cheeks between my hands.

  


“Merci,” I say. _Thank you. Thank you for being okay with this._ He hangs his head with a smile and I know he can feel it. The last week has fostered an understanding for my point of view, one that grew slowly and is still not yet mature. He is trying, though.

  


“I will miss you,” he says, returning back to our mother tongue, lifting his head once more to meet my eyes. “Three months is a long time.”

  


“You were away longer for university. And let me guess what you will miss most,” I tease, raising an eyebrow at him, planting a kiss on his cheek.

  


He drops his arms from their raised position and wraps them around my waist, lifting me easily from the floor. I yell and laugh to play along, hitting at the tops of his shoulders as he carries me through the still-barren living room and out the front door. Christophe laughs openly, amusement barreling from deep in chest all the way to the truck. He spins me once for good measure and sets me down to open the door, the rusted metal squeaking in protest as it always does.

  


The drive to Paradise Ranch is quiet, only the murmur of the radio between us. We pass the same sign as I did a week ago, though it looks more worn down in the light of day, without the soothing colors of sunrise to soften it. The red paint is rolled, unstuck from the dried up wood.

  


Christophe drives us down that same, long gravel driveway. The trailing cloud of dust dulls the red paint with a fine silt. He stops in front of the substantial white house and cranks the gear shifter into park, truck lurching to a stop.

  


My eyes settle on Cosima from across the yard, pupils pulled magnetically towards where she stands on the front steps. It’s been a week since I’ve seen her, two days since I spoke with her last on the telephone, but still I recognize her immediately. Her hands gesture emphatically at Ennis, who is watching her with his arms folded and eyes drawn together in concentration. Her back is to me, hip jutted out, dark hair pulled back and gathered at the top of her neck. A light brown, wide-brimmed hat sits on her head.

  


Ennis looks up, tips his head towards us in gesture and she turns, her smile already wide, lifting a hand to offer us a tiny wave. The shape of her face and the glasses that frame her eyes, her easy, open stance—Cosima's whole being weighs heavy on my limbs. My lips feel chapped beneath my tongue, the dry skin siphoning all moisture away immediately.

  


Suddenly, the driver’s side door slams shut and Christophe is making his way across the lawn, walking towards Cosima, who is on her way to meet him. My stomach knots as they near each other, my hands fumbling to unbutton my seatbelt, to push open the door and step out onto the grass.

  


For some reason, I am compelled to run, to catch up and keep them from meeting, which is foolish given the circumstances. But once I reach them, Cosima’s hand is already in his, shaking up and down in a quick greeting. “Pleased to meet you, Christophe.” Her copper eyes squint in the sun as she looks up to his face, shoulders sturdy under her worn jean jacket. Her smile crooks when she looks at me. “Happy to see me?” she asks, clearly amused at my impromptu jog.

  


Cosima’s eyes stay fixed on mine, awaiting a reply. I can feel my pulse in my throat. “I wanted to introduce you two,” I rationalize, both to Cosima and myself, the reason behind my impulsive sprint.

  


“We beat you to it.” She smiles at me, then Christophe, her eyes bouncing between us in examination. “We’ve got to get going soon. The herd is all ready to go and the ride up will take around five hours.”

  


Behind her, Ennis hobbles after two tricolor, spotted dogs with shaggy hair. The two of them roll and play together on the ground, coating their backs in dirt that is promptly shaken off as soon as they stand upright. The dogs growl in their play, tug at each other’s ears. “That’s our look-out team. Two Australian Shepherds,” Cosima laughs, neck turned to watch them, shaking her head. “We might be in trouble up there.”

  


“Looks like it,” Christophe replies, laughing with her, his eyes on the little show. His hand finds my waist, arm wrapping across my back to pull me in close. It’s a gesture he’s made time and time again, one that usually offers comfort and protection. But when Cosima turns back, I impulsively angle to put space between us. Her face changes, for only a split second, when she sees us—her eyebrows draw up quickly in surprise, in sadness, and then, forced neutrality. I am not sure what to make of it. In that quick moment, I read disappointment. It seems to mirror my own.

  


The movement is not lost on Christophe, who pulls me closer still. I know he’s confused. Probably as confused as I am for stepping away. For running across the lawn.

  


It’s all very haphazard, body moving independently of conscious mind. I can’t say exactly why. And I feel helpless for it.

  


A beat passes and Cosima studies us from behind her glasses. “I’m gonna... finish tacking up the horses,” she says, stepping back, pointing both thumbs over her shoulders in the direction of the barn. “Come find me when you’re done with your goodbyes and we’ll get you all rigged up for the ride.”

  


“Okay,” I nod. My hair falls forward with the force of my agreement, loose strands of curls brushing against my cheeks, obscuring my vision. I run my hand up and through the mess, push back the unruly curls, and set the bulk of it to one side of my head.

  


“I’ll just be behind the barn.” She points once more, still backing away, her voice growing louder at the distance, drowned by bleating sheep and tumbling shepherds.

  


“Bonne journée, Cosima,” Christophe calls with a wave of his free hand. “Take care of my wife, won’t you?”

  


“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she waves with a grin, then turns to finish her walk across the lawn, towards the barn. Her walk is as I remember, confident and strong, her hips loose and swaying gently with each step. A sand-colored horse waits for her, already brushed and saddled.

  


Christophe and I walk back towards the truck, his arm gone from my waist.

  


“What was that about?” he asks me in French.

  


“What?” I ask, but I know what he’s referring to.

  


“You pushed me away!" He leans against the dusty metal and pulls my rucksack from the truck bed. I pull the straps up my arms, lip between my teeth.

  


I think back to that moment, that little movement. If I remember correctly, my elbow wedged between our ribs and pried his grip from me. But it all happened so quickly, I'm still unsure of those mysterious, invisible forces at work in myself. Unsure of their motives.

  


“I don’t know, I am just nervous.” It doesn’t feel like the whole truth, but the exact reason still eludes me. And it’s true in a way; I _am_ nervous. More-so than I thought I would be.

  


Christophe shrugs in easy acceptance of my answer because, really, what else could it be? Besides, his attention is now drawn towards the barn.

  


“She’s an odd duck, huh?” he says. I follow his line of sight to Cosima. She stands with her hand at the quivering muzzle of the large, tan horse as he eats from her palm, patting his neck with her other hand. She is so small next to him, her frame dwarfed by the muscular giant. The saddle is set and polished, large canvas luggage bags strapped over his hips, probably filled with food and other necessities for our stay.

  


“What do you mean?”

  


“I don’t know. Kind of… _quirky_?” He laughs and I feel something rise up in me. A need to protect her.

  


“I think she’s nice.”

  


“Of course, yes, very nice. But a little bit…I don’t know. I got a _sense_ from her. She looked at you like a child with a crush, or something."

  


"Don't be ridiculous," I spill, but my voice feels on edge.

  


“I'm not sending you into the mountains to play house, am I?” he asks, a teasing smile on his mouth, one that reflects how ridiculous he finds the notion. I can’t indulge him now - not in this conversation. Not minutes before I follow her into the mountains with a hundred sheep in tow. I decide to focus on something else entirely.

  


"You're not _sending_ me anywhere. This is my job, remember?"

  


“Right, of course." His head tips back, conceding to my correction. He doesn’t want to fight about this anymore. There is a common understanding between us to not ruin this goodbye. Three months is too long a time to reopen the wounds we have spent the last week healing. Even still, he leans towards me with a mischievous smile, and says in a very low grumble, "She wouldn’t make as good a husband as me anyways.”

  


"Christophe..." I frown, settling the pack straps tighter over my shoulder.

  


"Think she knows how to chop wood?" Judging by the clever glint in his eye, he thinks this will make me laugh. But I can see the insecurity in his teasing. His ego can be so fragile.

  


Our unspoken agreement still stands; I don’t want to argue. But I want to end this exchange, to move on from Cosima. I don’t like her name in his mouth. The need to protect her rises up again.

  


“She was raised on a ranch. I'm certain she can chop wood and rope sheep and fulfill a variety of tasks you have deemed manly.”

  


His eyes widen at my words, but then he laughs, albeit uncomfortably. "Lighten up, I’m only joking.”

  


"Why are you asking me about Cosima when you should be saying goodbye?" I push my elbow into him playfully, concealing my annoyance in favor of parting on good terms.

  


"You are right," he smiles, and pulls me into a strong hug. His arms wrap around my waist and my arms habitually wind around his neck. With our cheeks pressed together and my fingers in his short, dark hair, Christophe smells as he always has. His is a scent that reminds me of La Tuque. He squeezes my ribs and lifts me slightly, his prickly beard scratching against my neck. "I will miss you every second you're away,” he says into my shoulder, then pulls back to kiss me once on the mouth. “Please be safe.”

  


“I will,” I smile, holding his face between my hands, committing to memory the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  


“Je t’aime,” he says.

  


“Je t’aime aussi.”

  


I step backwards after a small squeeze to his bicep and blow him a kiss from a few steps away. He catches it in the air and presses that hand against his smiling cheek. It’s a tradition we have kept from childhood. He would walk down the front steps of Maman’s house after a day of playing in the dirt and the trees and turn at the sidewalk to find me in the window. His hand would go up into the air, ready to catch the kiss I would inevitably blow him from behind the glass.

  


After the kiss has been received, I turn to face the barn and pace forward. Cosima is not where I last saw her, and my eyes scan the landscape without finding her amongst the various animals and ranch hands walking about. The tan horse stands alone, tied and eating from a trough in front of the imposing red barn. The truck engine starts and I look behind for one final farewell to Christophe. He starts down the driveway, disappearing quickly into a dense patch of trees, and I notice an immediate lightness. It’s followed quickly by the heaviness of guilt.

  
What kind of wife feels relief at her husband’s absence?

 


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an early update for my pal, sometimesitsalways, who is going through a rough time and needs a little pick me up. I hope this helps in some way!

Inside the barn, I find another horse—a dark brown gelding, saddled and reined, standing calmly at the door. No sign of Cosima.

  


I walk through to the other side, past the pen where the laboring ewe delivered her lamb only a week prior. I push the door open, the old wood rough under my fingers. There is a small building behind the barn, an unpainted shed. “Cosima?” I call.

  


“In here!” She peeks her head out with a grin, fingers at the corners of her glasses, pushing them up with her middle fingers, and disappears. Again, my chest is filled with air. I blow it out through tensed lips and let myself in. She’s standing at a counter, surrounded by a collection of metal tools hung from the walls. “Say your goodbyes?”

  


“Yes,” I say in English. For some reason, it just hits me that I won’t be speaking French for three months. A bit of sadness passes over, but then she looks up at me, tilting back her hat to expose more of her face, and it's gone.

  


“Must be hard to say goodbye for that long.”

  


"Yes and no," I answer truthfully. "He was away a lot for university, so we have not spent longer than a few weeks together since we started dating."

  


"Wow, so you haven't known each other long, then?"

  


"Oh no, I have known Christophe my whole life. We grew up together in Québec. But we have never lived together before and, honestly, I did not expect him to be so messy. This will be a nice break from picking up his laundry from the floor."

  


"Love is blind sometimes," she smiles, looking in my eyes, right through me, and I feel a shiver. But she blinks quickly when I look right back at her and her eyes dart to the floor, twirling a large brush in her hand. "To dirty laundry, or otherwise."

  


_How do you know? Have you ever been in love?_ I wonder.

  


"Are you...Do you have...?" I am not sure how to ask. I’m not sure if I should, or if I have a right to know, or what difference it will make.

  


"Do I have anyone to miss?" she laughs, asking herself the question I could not phrase. She’s looking at me again, and in the dim light of the shed, her face is all shadows and hard lines, even against her very smooth cheeks.

  


"I'm sorry.” I shake my head, nervous laughter.

  


"No, don't be. It's fine, and a fair question. I'm being all nosy towards you, asking about things that are none of my business. Umm, no. I don't have anyone to miss. Not right now."

  


"Maybe one day."

  


"Yeah, one day," she agrees, shrugging. Then she takes a step forward and I am suddenly very aware of how close she is, of our proximity. Her hand raises to the side of my head, hovering but not quite touching. “Your hair is…" she smiles, her teeth bright even in the dull light. Her hand drops back to her side.

  


"I know, it is a mess." I run my fingers through the twists and tangles that have accumulated over the morning’s events.

  


"No, no, I was going to say it's _majestic_."

  


"Merci," I smile, "but I can't keep it contained."

  


"Well, not that I think it _should_ be contained, but do you want to borrow a hat? The sun might be in your eyes on the way up.”

  


"Oh, yes, thank you." She walks to the other side of the shed, only a few feet away, and plucks a dark brown hat from its hanging place on the wall. When she’s back in front of me, there is noticeably more distance between us.

  


"This is Sarah’s and she definitely won’t be needing it.” She reaches up to place it snug on my head, then steps back with a sigh and a slight shake of her head. “Wow, that looks _great_ on you. Really, really nice. It goes with your, uh, eyes."

  


"My eyes?"

  


"Yeah, they're kind of green and kind of light brown, and the hat just sort of... pulls out the colors."

  


"I think that may be the most specific compliment I have ever received." I laugh and so does she, both of us looking at the ground and back again. A tingling warmth rises up my neck. She has made me blush.

  


"Yeah, well, what can I say?" She opens her mouth like she wants to say more, like there are a million thoughts dancing at the tip of her tongue. But then her mouth cranks shut and she clears her throat instead. "I think I got all of the grooming tools we'll need." She pats the bag slung against her hip, sliding the brush inside. "You ready to head up?"

  


"I am."

  


She leads me through the door, across the small grass alley, and back into the barn. Air dust swirls, illuminated in the streams of afternoon light pouring in through the slats in the siding. She stops at the dark brown saddled horse, still standing just inside the entrance, and gives him a firm pat on the neck, leaning in to butt her head against his cheek in a gesture he returns easily.

  


“You’ll ride Scotty. He’s a smart old horse, calm and doesn’t spook easy." She steps back and twirls her hand up towards the saddle. "Hop on up."

  


I slide my foot in the stirrup and swing my leg over. Immediately I feel his gentle strength and power beneath me. I squeeze my legs in a signal and guide him out of the barn, Cosima trailing behind.

  


"You look right like a natural. I think you and Scott are going to get to be good friends this summer. Just like us, right?" she grins, alluding to our conversation at the car that first day we met. She looks away and starts to mount the light tan horse before she has a chance to see me glow from residual embarrassment at words already a week old.

  


"Twist is my colt. It’s his first time up the mountains and it’s my job to whip him into shape this summer.” The energetic colt springs forward once she has the reins, and he brays, lifting his front feet quickly and stomping them back into the dirt. Cosima stays sturdy on the saddle, moving her hips in a counter to him, like she knows the sequence by heart. He stomps in a quick circle, but she stays with him, barely bouncing in his excitement. “Whoaaa,” she says, settling him with one hand on his bulging shoulder.

  


"Twist suits him," I say, biting at my lip.

  


"Oh, he's still just a baby. Turns three this year. Still has to learn some manners."

  


"Are you sure, Cosima? Is there another horse you can take? It appears he might need more training."

  


"I'm training him. I'll work with him all summer and by the end, he'll be tame as they come."

  


"I don't know."

  


"Delphine, I've been riding since before I could walk. Doubt there’s a filly that can throw me," she grins, then whistles with two fingers between her lips. The dogs bound from the house and Ennis trails close behind. "Heading up, Dad," she yells.

  


"Be careful, now."

  


"I'll see you in a week for the supply run. Take care of Mom."

  


"Oh, you know I will," he shoos, waving his arm in a gesture that reminds me of Cosima. She is always reaching out and pulling in the world. It appears she inherited that trait—be it nature or nurture—from Ennis.

  


Over the next few minutes, Cosima gathers the herd, weaving Twist through the crowd with a swift grace, and starts them up the mountain. He is settled, trotting smoothly now that we are moving, and I am thankful. The collective migration is like a wave of weaving lumps— tight frizzy hair, colored light yellow with lanolin. Two shaggy dogs race up each side of the mass and back down again, barking commands at the passive sheep. I bring up the rear as Cosima has instructed me to, riding steadily atop a serene and snorting Scotty. My boots swing in the stirrups.

  


Cosima is so far away, leading us all. For hours, I watch the back of her and, in the briefest of moments, her face as she turns to check on us all, offering me a quick wave. I find myself waiting for the twist of her neck, waiting for her wide smile. Even as the sky darkens and turns dark blue and purple around us, even as we pass us steep hills and narrow trails in dense forest, I can’t take my eyes off of her for longer than it takes to scan the crowd and check for stragglers.

  


_She looked at you like a child with a crush,_ Christophe had said.

  


_Is that possible?_ I wonder, watching her outline against the cut of the mountains range. Maybe Christophe can see something I cannot. Maybe that is what hypnotically drew my eyes to Cosima’s frame upon our arrival. Even from across the lawn, I couldn’t look away.

  


When I am near her, it feels like I’m looking at a painting with my nose pressed against the canvas. What I can see is gloriously detailed, meticulous, and vibrant. But the larger scene baffles me. Could I be too close? Too caught up in these summer plans and arguing for my independence to consider how I will be living in close quarters with a woman I cannot keep my eyes from? Yes, the job has its perks, both professionally and personally, but am I ignoring larger, more _cosmic_ reasons for my enthusiastic pursuit of this journey into the mountains?

  


I don’t believe in God. I lost what little faith I had when Maman was diagnosed. But maybe, _just_ _maybe_ , I believe in fate. In invisible strings, pulling people together, pulling my nose back from that canvas.

  


I believe that big pictures have slow reveals.

  


Cosima. _Co-si-ma._ The syllables slide from my tongue as I try on her name in my mouth again and again. Thankfully, the sound doesn’t reach her. It is blown away into the mountain air.

  


After a particularly steep incline along the side of a wide river, she leads us into a large field, a plateau of wild grass. The sun is nearly gone when we meet a gate, a large pen that shares one side with a small barn. Cosima hops down from Twist and shakes out her legs before pressing on the gate, her arms outstretched and body nearly parallel with the ground as her small frame pries open the heavy iron. The sheep pour in after her and she leads Twist into the enclosure by his noseband, all the way to the barn. As they pour inside and follow her to the barn, I notice a small cabin, a simple wooden building with a porch spanning across its front.

  


“Delphine!” she calls, running across the pen. “Are they all in?”

  


“I think so!” I call back, but she’s nearly made it back to the gate, pushing it closed behind Scott’s sweeping tail.

  


We undress the horses and set the bags aside. We button up the barn and leave one door open to the pen. Cosima leads me to the cabin with a pack on her back and a case of food in her arms.

  


We are so close, walking side by side. It feels different being next to her now that I have considered Christophe’s words. I feel more aware of the nuance, of the way her eyes widen whenever she looks down at my mouth. And strangely, I find that I don’t mind it at all.

  


“I did not expect the living quarters to be so nice.”

  


“Living quarters?” she laughs, looking up at me through her glasses.

  


“Well, what should I call it, then?”

  


“Umm, a cabin?”

  


“Brat.”

  


“Ouch!” she grins and nudges me with her shoulder.

  


“It really is beautiful,” I say. And it is. There is something magical about a cabin hidden away in the middle of the Wyoming mountains. There is something healing about being secluded in a wide open space.

  


“Just wait until you see it in the day time.”

  


“Hmm,” I agree.

  


"My dad built it by hand. When he first got the ranch, he used to stay in a tent up here, cook over a tiny fire for the whole summer. My mom even joined him like that when they got married. But once Sarah and I were around, he spent the whole summer building a cabin up here. Dug a well and everything."

  


We walk up the porch and she opens the door without a key. They must leave it unlocked throughout the year, so far secluded into the mountains that theft is not of concern.

  


The inside of the cabin is as rustic as its exterior, all of the walls and floors built with a rich brown wood. Cosima removes a match from the box near the door and lights the oil lantern, illuminating the space. The whole place smells like cedar and dust, as well as a certain muskiness that comes from sitting empty for a winter. A small green sofa, simple handmade coffee table, a floor lamp, and a wood burning stove make up the living room, and a small kitchen sits to the right of the front door. Straight ahead is a short hallway with a single, closed wooden door to the right. A large rug covers the bulk of the floor in an intricate, triangular pattern.

  


"The outhouse is in the back. There are two bedrooms. The master is down this hall and the room Sarah and I used to share is off of the living room. Bunk beds. I don't mind taking that room if you want the big bed."

  


"No, no, I'll take the bunks."

  


"Are you sure? Because Sarah got top bunk every summer and I was kind of looking forward to claiming it as my own this year." She smiles again, canines peeking from the corners of her mouth in jest.

  


"Well it seems there is a longstanding tradition of you being denied access to the top bunk and I don't see any reason why that can't continue."

  


"Wow. Just...wow." She sighs dramatically, feigning disbelief, and it draws a giggle from the back of my throat. "You know, Sarah doesn't like many people, but I think that attitude would earn you some serious brownie points."

  


"I will remember to bring it up if we ever get a chance to meet."

  


"Yeah, well there are a few things I'd like to bring up with her first, so get in line." A small eye roll, so faint I barely catch it, and her hands are under her glasses, rubbing sleepily at her eyes.

  


"Seriously, you take the bigger room. I am perfectly fine in your childhood bed." I swing open the bedroom door to a small space, dominated by built-in stacked beds.

  


"You're so much taller, it practically seems cruel to make you sleep here,” Cosima teases as I set my rucksack on the bottom bunk and sit to loosen my shoelaces. My feet and thighs and back ache from the journey, body buzzing for rest.

  


"I will survive," I say, pulling off Sarah’s hat and setting it to the side. I run my hands through my hair, combing with my fingers. Cosima rests her shoulder against the doorframe, watching me closely, one arm across her chest, drawing the jean jacket tighter against her shoulders, the other holding the lantern.

  


"I should really be thanking you. I tend to sleep like a starfish, so I could use the extra room."

  


"Starfish? I don't think I know it." Cosima raises her arms and widens her stance in her charade. "Oh! L'étoile de mer!"

  


"Yeah, what you said. _Let-oil de mer_..." she mimics.

  


"Very close," I laugh, fingers covering my mouth. It wasn’t right at all, but something about her harsh American accent has my teeth chewing at my bottom lip.

  


"Look at me, I'm practically French."

  


"Québécois," I correct, still laughing.

  


"Of course, of course." She steps back to the other side of the door frame, yawning. "Okay, I'm sorry, I know we've had a long day and you must want to get some rest, so I'll leave you to it."

  


"Great," I agree, but she doesn’t move. Not really. She just shuffles back and forth restlessly, like she doesn’t want to leave.

  


"We'll let the herd graze around here tomorrow, so don't worry about waking too early. We'll just spend some time and get settled in."

  


"Okay."

  


"Okay,” she smiles. "Good night, Delphine."

  


"Good night."

  


She offers me one final, sparking grin that sinks my stomach full of stones. I feel heavy with the burden of her sweetness. So heavy I could fall asleep right where I sit. But the moment she starts to walk away, she turns swiftly back with her finger raised in a question. "Hey, uh, how do I say that in French?"

  


"Good night, en Français?"

  


"Oui," she grins, teasing still. Always teasing.

  


"Bonne nuit."

  


"Okay, then. Bonne nuit, Delphine." And it’s absolutely perfect in her strangely-accented imperfection. A lump forms in my throat. This bid for connection and understanding does not hit me lightly. Maybe I won't be without French for three months after all.

 

  
"Bonne nuit, Cosima."

 


	7. Sept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this update is really soon after the last one, but I wanted to get on track for Friday updates! So, you've gotten three in one week, you lucky readers, you. From now on, expect updates on Fridays!
> 
> Thanks everyone for the lovely comments! I don't think you all realize how much your feedback impacts me and keeps me motivated to write this story, along with just making my day! Whenever I'm feeling down or just questioning my writing abilities, your words and excitement lifts me up. So, thanks :D

 

** Sunday **

  
  


Coffee is what wakes me, both the bubbling noise and the aroma wafting through the cabin, mingling with the scent of stale sheets and dusty wood. I wake with the ache of exhaustion still in my muscles, though I can tell by the intensity of the sun that I've slept later than planned. Yesterday must have taken more out of me than I thought.

  
  


I slip on jeans and one of Christophe’s old undershirts, pull my hair back, and enter the living room barefoot. Cosima stands at the sink, glancing out the window, sipping from the cup at her lips. 

  
  


She's been up for a while, I can tell. She's fully dressed in light jeans tucked into tall, dusty boots, a red flannel shirt rolled up on her arms. Her hat hangs near the front door and her hair is drawn up into a messy pile on top of her head. Out the window in front of her, I can see the barn doors have been opened and the herd and horses are grazing within the pen, water glistening in their troughs. She has done the morning chores without me. 

  
  


"Good morning," I say, and walk towards the steaming pot of black liquid. 

  
  


"Morning," she replies, turning around to lean against the countertop, her eyes so bright. "Sleep well?"

  
  


"Oui. Too long, I think. I still feel tired."

  
  


"That's okay, the trip can be rough. Morning chores are taken care of, anyway. Want some coffee?"

  
  


"Thank you," I smile, nerves in my throat as I near her and pour it into a mug she has set out for me. The coffee tastes bitter and burnt in my mouth. I want to spit it out, but I swallow anyway. I need the caffeine.

  
  


"Don't like it black?" she laughs, watching my face contort. 

  
  


"I enjoy  _ good _ black coffee."

  
  


"Hey, if you don't like my coffee..." she teases, tilting her head, swiping her arm to take back her offering. I laugh and twist my torso, holding the cup as if it were my most precious gift.

  
  


"No, no, I need it! I am not complaining."

  
  


"Good choice," she mumbles from the side of her mouth with a smirk, and takes another sip. 

  
  


"So, what do you want to do today?"

  
  


I shrug. "What do you usually do?"

  
  


"Well, read, actually. I have a whole collection of books stored in your closet that I’ve kind of built up over the years. Feel free to read some if you’d like. I spend a lot of time drawing, too. I brought some supplies, if you're interested in that sort of thing."

  
  


“I am not much of an artist, but I will take a look at the books later. For now, I am still feeling exhausted. Maybe I should rest today. Especially if we are taking them to graze tomorrow."

  
  


"Definitely. There's a hammock out back if you want to get some fresh air."

  
  


"That sounds nice," I say, and silence falls between us. It's comfortable and light, each of us warming our throats with coffee, standing over the kitchen sink, watching the dogs play out the window. Twist gallops around the edge of the pen, weaving between sheep in a makeshift obstacle course, shaking his head. Cosima laughs, then sighs, shaking her own head at her horse's misbehavior.

  
  


"Think I've got my work cut out for me?" She rinses her empty cup under the sink water, then sets it to the side. 

  
  


"I think so," I reply, and watch her pull her hat from its resting place by the front door and settle it on her head, completing the cowgirl aesthetic. 

  
  


"Wish me luck." She smiles crookedly, and slips out the front door before I can reply.

  
  


"Good luck," I say to my last sip of coffee. 

  
  


After I rinse the cup, I slip on socks and boots and go in search of the hammock, which is tied up between two trees and easily visible now that the sun is out. I cocoon myself in the woven material, fold my arms and rest them against my stomach, breathing deeply the sweet mountain air, the gentle fragrance of wild berries and grass. My eyelids heavy, body unable to stay awake any longer, I drift to sleep.

  
  


When I wake, the sun is high in the sky, probably the afternoon. Cosima and Twist move as one in the distance, galloping around the yard, agile and controlled, rocketing through straightaways and leaning into sharp corners. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


** Tuesday **

  
  


Every step Scott takes pops me up from the saddle. His hooves clomp along the trail as we trot behind the herd, my eyes keeping track of every sheep and monitoring the dogs. For as much as they play and wrestle in the grass outside of the cabin in the evenings, I am impressed by their work ethic during the day. Their tirelessness around keeping the sheep collected and moving forward allows me ample time to glance in Cosima's direction, to watch her weave Twist around trees and between large gatherings of wild currant shrubs. The sun is the hottest it has been since we arrived and she is wearing a dark green sleeveless top to keep cool, the muscles in her back rippling with each confident movement of the leather reins. 

  
  


When we make it to our destination in the highlands, Cosima hops down and shakes her legs out, a ritual of hers that I enjoy more and more with each repetition. The movement reminds me of watching her mix pancake batter in her farmhouse kitchen, all strong, graceful, dancing limbs.

  
  


I follow her lead and climb from Scott. The sheep disperse, heads bowed and munching on tall grass and flowers. 

  
  


"You ready to become a real-live American cowgirl?" she grins, hoisting a thick, coiled rope off of Twist's side and onto her shoulder. 

  
  


"Très certainement!" I reply, laughing as she rolls her eyes at my French response. 

  
  


"No, you're supposed to say  _ I reckon _ . I'm starting to think you're not serious about this whole  _ becoming a cowgirl _ thing." She winks at me and my stomach drops like the rope from her shoulder. It piles over her shoes and she stands with one hand on her hip, the other gesturing towards the thick cording. 

  
  


"I grew up around animals. I have worked on farms for years! I think the problem is that you think  _ only _ Americans can be cowboys."

  
  


"Or cowgirls."

  
  


"Or cowgirls," I agree.

  
  


"Sorry, but I don't care where you're from. If you've never tied or thrown a rope..." She steps closer, kicking the heavy cording aside, her hand falling from her hip. "If you've never lassoed a ram by the horns," she states, closer now. So close I can see a collection of sweat beads at her temple and at the ridge of her upper lip. "Well, I'm sorry, but you're not a real cowgirl."

  
  


A sudden urge to wipe away the perspiration sweeps through me, throws my mind off course into untraveled territory. Is it a strange desire? To press my thumb to her upper lip and wipe away the condensation from the day's heat? An innocent gesture amongst friends? My eyes shoot up to find hers, and she watches me closely.

  
  


"Do I have something on my face?" she laughs and wipes at her jaw and lips with the back of her hand. The contemplated sweat disappears.

  
  


"Non." I shake my head and look at the ground to escape her gaze.

  
  


"Oh, 'cause you were looking at my mouth, and I thought I might have some dirt or something." She's still so close—so close it would be effortless to reach out and touch her. 

  
  


"It's nothing."

  
  


"Oooookay," she says, and twists her mouth awkwardly to the side. I feel responsible for the uncomfortable moment. My struggle feels so obvious, so transparent. I'm sure she can see through me. She looks at me that way sometimes—as if my projections of pseudo-self are meaningless and infantile. As if she can see straight through to the truth. I've never been looked at like this before.

  
  


She clears her throat and takes a step back, then bends to fist the rope's end. She's moved back a half metre, but the lack of detail I can see on her face makes her seem farther. I can hardly see the dimple that forms on her chin during her big, goofy grin.

  
  


"I'm going to teach you a honda knot. It'll keep the end of the rope open, then lets you pull it closed once you've roped your target."

  
  


My hands join hers on the rope and she explains the twist and pull of the knot until it is securely tied and we've made a large loop at the end. Every time our fingers brush, I pull away with a jerk. My nerve endings transmit a signal similar to that of a burning hot pan.  _ Danger, danger,  _ they say.

  
  


We walk together to a lone tree stump and she shows me how she swings the rope above her head, twirling one hand in small circles and the other holding slack at her side. 

  
  


"You want to get it going at a steady speed. Not too fast or you'll lose control."

  
  


"Okay," I reply, watching her body shift back and forth with the force of her spinning arm. 

  
  


"Look at your target. The head, the horns, or the... especially wild and rare tree stump," she laughs. "Then use the momentum you've built to throw, and..." She trails off with a grunt and tosses the heavy, thick twine in a perfect arc. It floats gracefully through the air and lands draped around the top of the stump. She pulls back with a jerk, and tightens the loop with her full body weight. "Yee-haw, Delphine!" she yells, feigning an exaggerated accent and a fight from the other end. "I roped us a ferocious wildebeest!"

  
  


"Wildebeest?" I laugh. "I didn't know they lived around here."

  
  


"Oh yes," she gasps, "they're native to Wyoming."

  
  


"Well, what should we do with it?"

  
  


"Hmmm," she considers, loosening her grasp on the still-bucking wildebeest. "We better let it go. It belongs to the mountains and was never ours to begin with."

  
  


"That's true. And it's the  _ experience _ of roping the wildebeest that counts."

  
  


"Exactly! Once in a lifetime!" she agrees, jogging to the stump, lifting the rope from its circumference and freeing the wild animal back to its rightful home.

  
  


She tosses me the rope and I catch it clumsily. It is coarse in my palms, tiny scratching hairs poke out from the sides and into my skin. I test its weight, pull the loop wide open to offer more room for error.

  
  


And then, Cosima is behind me, slipped into place and lifting my arm from beneath with the pressure of her hand.

  
  


"Is this okay?" she asks, tipping her head around my shoulder with the question. "I want you to get a feel for the movements."

  
  


"Yes."  _ Danger, danger, danger! _

  
  


"Okay, we'll swing it together the first time. Ready?"

  
  


"Mmhmm."

  
  


My hand grips the rope, cupped and maneuvered by hers. Her other hand hovers just above my waist, not touching, like her front to my back. I can feel the warmth of her presence, but she doesn't touch me anywhere but our swinging arm and hand. 

  
  


She guides our limbs in tight circles until the rope glides rhythmically in a circle above our heads. She loosens her hold, but I keep up the rhythm. I don't dare to look up, for fear of breaking the flow.

  
  


"Look at your target," she says, her voice low and next to my ear. A gentle shiver runs up my back and meets at the base of my neck, hairs standing on end. "And throw."

  
  


My eyes focus on the top of the stump, its jagged and mossy edges, the bark flaking off amidst decomposition. The breath from her nose is angled right to my shoulder and every gentle puff of air hits skin that will be pink later from the sun. 

  
  


I breathe deep, I exhale. I throw.

 

 

 


	8. Huit

**Thursday**

  


The dogs are barking.

  


I push myself up from the bed with a start, the incessant noise pulling me from a deep sleep, just as the ringing of the phone had two weeks ago. Only this time, I can't see anything. The moon is barely a sliver in the sky and nothing is illuminated before my groggy eyes.

  


I knock my skull on the top bunk as I scramble onto my feet. This bed frame was clearly designed for a child; the overhead clearance is only a metre high, and I hit my head in nearly the same spot each time. A small hematoma has started to form, a bulbous lump on the right side.

  


The top bunk is larger, the ceiling further away, but the bottom bunk's history keeps me sleeping there night after night. I imagine a scrawny, spectacled Cosima, her nose buried in a book, reading with a flashlight to finish the last few pages of a novel. It's an image that she alluded to earlier in the week that now enters my mind each time I draw back the sheets. The knowledge of what once occurred here warms my chest and makes it glow.

  


I pull a sweater over my head on my way into the living room. Cosima is bent over in her nightgown and work boots, directing frustrated sighs to the bottom of a tall, narrow closet by the front door—one so nondescript I hadn’t even noticed it before.

  


"Is everything okay?"

  


"No," she says shortly and without explanation. She stands abruptly with a long rifle in her hand, the leather strap hanging down from the worn wooden butt. "Did the dogs wake you?"

  


"Yes." I move closer and her eyebrows draw up in concentration.

  


Her hands move in frantic staccato, pinning the gun between her bare knees, opening a box of bullets. A few spill out onto the floor, but she pays them no mind, her concentration unbroken. The barrel bends open at the middle under the pressure of her palm and she loads the long metal tubes with one bullet each, then snaps it shut. Before I can say another word, she bursts through the front door and out into the night, shoulder first. I hear her boots stomp across the porch and down the stairs. I turn my head to watch her out the window hung over the sink, frozen. The dogs are still barking, but it’s too dark to see them.

  


"Dammit!" she grunts, and her footsteps head back in. “I can’t see!” she growls.

  


“Need a flashlight?”

  


“Glasses.”

  


“Oh!” I say, and run into her bedroom, my socks sliding across the wooden floor. Her bedsheets are all tossed up and still look warm; she must have left as hastily as I did. I spot her glasses quickly, folded on the nightstand, and run back to the front door with them, pulling the temples open at the hinge. She peeks around the screen and I glide the hooks over her ears, settle the bridge on her nose, which she wrinkles until the frames fall into place.

  


“Thanks,” she grins, then disappears.

  


When I step out onto the porch, I watch Cosima run across the field and towards the barn, her hair flowing behind in waves. She halts when she reaches the pen gate and lifts the butt of the rifle to her shoulder, staring straight-backed down the sight, her legs in a wide, solid stance. I can’t see where she’s aiming exactly, the sky so unforgivingly dark without the presence of the moon.

  


And then, two shots.

  


_Boom_.

  


_Boom_.

  


When the gun falls to her side, my chest is full of anxious air, my hand clamped tightly over my mouth in anticipation.

  


“Are you okay?” I yell, finally exhaling when she enters the pen.

  


She doesn't answer me, but walks with determination across the field and towards the barn. Maybe she didn't hear me. Maybe I should call again. But, I remain frozen, watching her fade away into the black of the barn's shadow projected by the barely-there moon until I can't hear her, can't see her.

  


"Cosima?"

  


"Bring the medical kit," she yells, her voice strong, but far away. Hurried.

  


I follow her instructions, heart thumping in my throat. Back in the house, I open the bag and search through its contents. Gauze and antibiotics, wound cleanser, a needle and thread, painkillers, scissors, prepackaged shots of penicillin. She was not specific about what type of medical care is necessary. Will this be enough? I have never extracted a bullet. How deep did it go?

  


Grasses and weeds whip against the front of my boots as I run across the lawn, bag over my shoulder. The inside of the barn is illuminated now by a lantern dangling in suspension from the ceiling rafters.

  


"What happened?"

  


"The dogs go berserk when a coyote comes by. But, first things first," she says, and tips her head to the corner in an Ennis-like gesture. The whole herd is packed into the barn, startled into shelter by predators and gunshots. One sheep lay in the hay, an open wound at the right side of its neck. "Coyote got him good before I got the coyote."

  


"Did it get away?" I ask, kneeling to inspect the wound. The ram's eyes are wide open and almost completely black, terrified. But he doesn't shy away as I pull on gloves and part back his wiry hair. The bite is oozing, but it isn't deep—only about twelve centimetres long. I have seen much worse.

  


"Nah, I got him. Pulled it around the back of the barn. I'll bury it in the morning."

  


"Oh," I say, and nod in understanding. "The wound is not bad; he is lucky." Then the realization hits me all at once. "Wait, do you mean to tell me that you shot the coyote mid-attack? And you didn't hit the ram?"

  


"Mountain devil didn't stand a chance." She grins, so pleased with herself, setting her hands confidently on her hips.

  


"Impressive."

  


"What can I say...I'm an excellent marksman," she grins, rocking forward onto the toes of her boots. She is so cheeky, and it thrills me — distracts me from the urgent task at hand. Bare legs bridge the gap between brown leather and the bottom hem of her thin blue nightgown. I see a slight shiver run through her. It's cold without the sun and she's mostly skin.

  


"Is there anything you don't do well?"

  


"Subtlety. I've never been particularly good at that," she laughs. "How can I help?" The question draws me from distraction, a habit that has grown increasingly common over the past five days.

  


"Are you cold?" I ask finally, watching her bare knees shiver in the glow of the lantern. "Do you want my sweater?" I'm feeling warmed by an unfamiliar inner restlessness. I would be fine without the extra layer.

  


"Oh, no, I'm okay. Thanks, though."

  


"Okay," I reply, and shrug because it seems useless to argue. I've seen how stubborn she can be. "Umm, I need to irrigate the wound. Can you...?" I motion to the coiled green hose hanging from a wall stud.

  


"Oh, yeah."

  


Once the hose is flowing in my hand, I wash the wound, and the hair around it turns pink with diluted blood. The ram squirms beneath me, but I settle him with low, hushed tones. I spread an antibiotic ointment along the raw flesh, pink muscle visible in between. The wound may close up fine, but I sew several stitches to keep it from breaking. Cosima winces at each pull of the thread, but says nothing, offering silence in my concentration.

  


As I unroll the protective gauze, she says, "I'm really glad you're here. I wouldn't have known the first thing to do with a wound like that."

  


"You would have figured it out," I smile, and pull off the latex gloves.

  


"Still, we make a pretty good team, huh?"

  


"I guess we do."

  


"It's all very...domestic. Me, protector. You, healer," she mocks in a deep voice, and my stomach bubbles at the likeness to Christophe's words. At the moment, I can't tell if it's butterflies or nerves. The second option seems less intimidating. I will go with that.

  


"Cosima," I say, and feel a faint heat on my neck. Speaking her name aloud this softly has previously been reserved solely for my ears and deaf mountain wind. But it's not an unusual thing to say someone's name. Is it?

  


And maybe nerves are no better than butterflies.

  


"Yeah?" she replies, after a long moment of silence.

  


"I was just thinking—coyotes are pack animals. There are probably more nearby."

  


"Yeah, they're scared of people, though. Especially people with rifles. They won't come back—at least not tonight."

  


"Okay." I tie off the last bit of the gauze and check for a secure wrap, still allowing him room to breathe and move comfortably. "Does he have a name?"

  


"Ummm... Mr. Ram?"

  


"Bien sûr!" I laugh. "Monsieur Bélier,"

  


"Oh, he, uh, doesn't speak French."

  


"Oh, yes, that must be confusing for him! Mr. Ram, please don't remove your bandages. I will be back to change the dressing later today."

  


"Thanks for translating. He gets confused really easily."

  


I laugh, and pack up the last of the supplies.

  


"The sun is starting to rise," I announce.

  


"Yeah, I should probably get the chores done and get some more sleep. I barely got any last night and am clearly beginning to lose my sound mind—defending an English-speaking ram and all."

  


"You haven't been sleeping?" I ask, wondering about her bed, how it looked so slept-in when I went in search of her glasses. Had she been tossing and turning all night?

  


"I get insomnia sometimes. I'm used to it by now." She steps to remove the lid from the horse's feed bin, but my hand swings out to stop her, encircling her forearm and releasing immediately.

  


"Non, we are a team, remember? Go get some rest. I can feed and water everyone."

  


"You sure?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

  


"Oui. Go!" I shoo.

  


"Hey, thanks." She slings the packed medical kit up and over her shoulder, juts out her hip to counterbalance the weight.

  


"De rien," I say

  


She disappears out the barn door, and my nerves slowly dissipate. All the animals seem to be watching me closely, still startled from the evening's events.

  


I pull out the hose and clean the low metal trough, then refill the basin with fresh well water. I scoop oats into the horse's elevated feeding trough, then open every barn door. The herd slowly migrates out to graze, emboldened by the rising sun and the orange sky peeking over the distant foothills.

  


When the chores are finished, I extinguish the lantern and walk back towards the house, invigorated by the crisp air, thankful for the sweater keeping out the worst of the chill.

  


On the porch, I stretch my arms above my head, set my spine in a straight line and welcome the new day. My eyes travel across the scene in front of me, the peaceful exploration of bleating sheep, the way we are all perfectly framed by strong mountains and rolling hills, wildflowers and berries growing in patches around the yard. It is more peaceful here than I ever could have imagined. So much space to define myself outside of La Tuque and Christophe and Maman's legacy.

  


But if I define myself here, does the identity follow me home? Down the mountain and back to Buffalo? Do I get to remain the person I become, whoever she is?

  


The loving gaze of my surroundings falters when I see the back of the barn. A small heap of brown and gray fur lays lifeless, killed and dragged out of the way when it dared disturb the settlement's peace. It had invaded the most sacred of spaces and paid for it the highest price.

  


But it hadn't attacked out of viciousness, out of hate. No, it was a drive to survive, an instinct to keep pressing forward, a desire born from so many generations. The Mountain Devil invaded what it had no right to, propelled by nature's food chain law.

  


And in trying to claim what it didn't own, it lays there lifeless, fully defeated, awaiting an unceremonious burial.

 

* * *

 

 

**Saturday**

  


A fine layer of dust covers Cosima's childhood books and paints the tip of my finger as I run it along the titles.

  


_The Golden Book of Astronomy_

_The Borrowers_

_The Fellowship of the Ring_

_Hands, Eyes, and Musculature: A Sketch Study_

  


The collection spans the duration of her child and young adulthood, a window into her curious mind and variety of interests. The spines vary in color, height, and material.

  


At the far end of the stack, I spy a titleless brown leather-covered binder with loose paper poking from the edges. I pull it into my lap and open the cover. Worn textured paper glides under my fingers as I flip through various sketches in pencil and charcoal, each slip unattached to the next. Human forms, animals, scenery—a clear progression of skill and technique from beginning to end. Each image is so intimate, as if a piece of herself was left on each page with the tiny scribble of her name in the corner. In this moment, I see the world through her eyes. And it is impossibly more beautiful what I expected.

  


I feel myself growing closer and closer to her by the second. Suddenly, the stories she has not yet told me are explained in intricate detail. Suddenly, she is not so mysterious.

  


Sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor brings an ache to my hips and ankles, so I stand and stretch them before walking out the front door. The sun is out, herd grazing in the field. The pen is open, but none of them stray from the property, dogs alert and ready to boss them back should they try.

  


Cosima's old sketchbook in my hand, I look in the direction of the trail she disappeared down hours ago. She and Twist had started their journey to the meeting spot just after breakfast.

  


_"Sure there's nothing you need?" she asks me, empty bags hanging over the bulging muscles of Twist's hips, ready to carry back a week's worth of food. A three hour ride to the rendezvous point with Ennis, plus the returning ride, allots about six hours in her absence._

  


_"Non, nothing special," I reply, worrying my lip at the way Twist's hooves stomp and kick up dust, antsy before their journey. "Be safe."_

  


_"Will do," she grins and taps her calves into his sides, gripping her tan hat with one hand as he lurches forward and runs down the trail. "See you tonight!" she yells, her jacket blowing back, disappearing quickly into the dense foliage._

  


I curl up at the edge of the pen, rest my back against a rough wooden post and the book on the tops of my knees. My thumbs press into the pages to keep them from blowing away and my eyes study the sweeping marks of Cosima's pencil in the first sketch. It is an image I recognize well - the cabin and the surrounding mountains. Two figures stand at the side of the page, a man and woman with their arms around each other. One resembles Ennis and the other must be Cosima's mother. She's mentioned her several times, but always in vague sense—never specific and never her name.

  


I flip through the rest, my eyes devouring the graceful lines and images that she has brought to life with the tip of her pencil; the detail in Sarah's profile, every leaf accounted for in the scenery behind her; the reflection of a ewe drinking from a water trough, her image distorted by the ripples.

  


Cosima said she enjoyed sketching, but this doesn't look like a hobby. This is a gift. Dare I say, a passion?

  


At the middle of her sketchbook, a heavily shadowed and willowy female nude catches my eye. The face is tipped back and obscured by heavy shading, unreadable. The rest of her body is expertly drawn, sinewy arms and smooth thighs, a delicate detailed hand resting daintily against the feminine plain of her stomach. Her ankles are twisted, feet arched tenderly against a crumpled blanket.

  


Is it another woman drawn from memory? Is this a...self portrait? No, the limbs are too long, hair over her shoulders too wavy.

  


My teeth bite at the sides of my cheeks and my stale tongue sticks against the suddenly bone-dry roof of my mouth. I gulp it down, but even the top of my trachea gums together, overwhelmed by the elegance of this image. An unexpected sting of tears pricks at the backs of my eyes, both at the beauty of the drawing and the realization that I may be looking at a recollection of a lived experience. The intimacy of it could not be conjured from imagination. Has Cosima seen another woman in such a state?

  


I close the book and force my eyes up, to soak in the sun, the perfect blue sky, the fluffy clouds. I wonder what Cosima sees when she looks at the world. With the way she can translate such emotion to paper, is her lens different from mine? Does she see graceful, sweeping lines of charcoal where I see circumstance?

  


A steady, strumming, clomping from the treeline draws my attention. My eyes squint into the sun, so I raise my hand to cast a shadow. Twist is there, shooting up from the trail with canvas bags slung over his sides, packed full of food. He is huffing and corkscrewing, shaking at the neck with a snort. My heart lurches even further down, dropping with a thunk to the pit of my stomach.

 

  
The saddle is empty.

 


	9. Neuf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

On instinct, my body rises, frantic and thumping. My legs carry me to Twist, who is huffing less and less, his reins still on and hanging limply against his neck. "Hush," I say, mimicking Cosima's tone. "Hush."

  
  


When he settles slightly, his big brown eyes still wide, I lead him into the pasture and my hands work quickly to rid him of the loaded bags, letting them drop to the grass. I hold my breath constantly, reminding myself to exhale, to breathe fresh air lest I pass out and leave Cosima in the middle of the woods a second longer.

  
  


Cosima. Images of her state flash through my mind. Was she thrown into her side, ribs broken, arm shattered? Onto her head? Was she trampled by Twist in his effort to escape whatever had him spooked? _Breathe, Delphine,_ I think.

  
  


The worry in me has risen so high, I am drowning, gasping. The sudden prick of tears at the corners of my eyes catches me off guard. Have I grown so attached? So quickly?

  
  


The routine of saddling Scott is blurred by incessant worry and I find myself hoisting up, settling into his saddle and nudging his hips with my heels, holding the reins tight as we enter the woods. He seems to have absorbed my urgency and gallops swiftly down the trail, following my every command with the subtle movement of my arms. My eyes burn and water from the warm wind whipping them dry. But we don’t slow down—not even for a moment—weaving easily between fallen tree limbs and tufts of burrs and other pokey seeds.

  
  


After riding for much too long, my eyes have grown tired and each tree bleeds into the next, the scenery melting into one spattering of brown and green and blue. I shake my head and attune my gaze to find the flash of dark red, the collared sweater that I’d noticed her wearing that morning. I tug on the reins and Scott slows to a trot. I need to be looking more carefully; she could have been thrown into an embankment. I could have already passed her in my haste.

  
  


Just as I turn us, pulling Scott in a sharp right turn, I hear the faintest grumble up ahead on the trail. When I look towards the source, Cosima is upright, walking in a dusty shuffle, dragging the toes of her boots with each step. Her hat is caught between palm and flexing thigh, and her eyes look weary and downcast. The part that clenches at my heart the most, however, is the large gash over her temple and the subsequent trail of blood. The dark red path that stretches from forehead to jaw is partly dried, partly glistening still at the source of the injury.

  
  


She offers me a small, defeated wave, with her glasses crooked and lopsided on her ears. One hand pulls clusters of dried bramble from her hair.

  
  


“You’re okay,” I say, my voice faltering. I didn’t understand how relieved I would be to find her before this moment—how happy I would be to find her injured and frowning.

  
  


“Barely,” she shrugs and tries to smile, then winces.

  
  


“I wasn’t sure how I would find you.” I throw my leg from the side of the saddle and jog down the trail, loose stones throwing off my balance. But I reach her nonetheless and my arms reach out to gather her in. “I’m so glad you’re okay!” I resist the urge to pull her close, unsure of injuries hiding beneath her clothing and uncertain if my touch is welcome. Instead I grip the top of her arm loosely and bring the other hand to hover over her forehead, visually searching the wound for depth. It appears to be clotting successfully and she is conscious—a good sign. I press my thumb against her hairline.

  
  


"I take it Twist found his way home alright. And also, _ahhoow_ ,” she groans, wincing, but doesn’t push my hand away.

  
  


“I’m sorry.”

  
  


“It’s just... _radiating_. My head is throbbing.”

  
  


“What happened?”

  
  


“Turns out he’s not as trail-ready as I thought. A tree limb fell and he just took off. I fell clear backwards and landed on my side. I think I bruised my ribs, too.” She rubs at her side, eyes drawn up in a pained grimace, and lets out a little grunt.

  
  


“Pauvre petit chiot. Let’s get you home,” I say, guiding her to Scott, holding her hat and helping her up onto the saddle, steadying her from behind as she settles in. I consider walking them back, knowing the saddle was built for one, but she beckons me up anyways.

  
  


“Come on. I want you up here in case I pass out again.”

  
  


“ _Again_?” I ask, slipping my boot into the stirrup, moulding in behind her easily. She hadn't mentioned unconsciousness. My concern for the severity of her injury expands and settles right against my lungs.

  
  


“Just barely,” she shrugs, brushing off the worry in my voice, leaning her shoulders back so that we are pressed tightly together. “But now if it happens again, I’ll just fall on you.” I can hear the smile in her voice, smell the metallic scent of her blood and the sticky sweat from the back of her neck, closer than it has ever been before. She sinks back into me, exhausted and in need of support, and Scott carries us back up the mountain slowly.

  
  


We ride that way for a while, her head lolling back intermittently, our hips swaying in synchronicity with each of Scott’s steps. Silence settles between us, the words we’re not speaking filled in with sounds of the woods. The whistle of a mountain breeze. A few chirping birds. She touches my hand in a silent gesture, squeezing the backs of my knuckles with her fingers. “Thank you for finding me,” she says, so so quietly. For the moment, I trust Scott’s sense of direction and watch our hands brush together against the brown leather reins.

  
  


She walks easily into the cabin once Scott is back safely grazing in his pen. There are no signs that walking is difficult for her—luckily no injured limbs in her fall—but I support her from the side anyway, linking an arm beneath hers and guiding her up the porch steps and through the screen door. She feels so small next to me and I wonder if I should have carried her. A completely ridiculous desire.

  
  


She lowers herself onto the worn out couch, the springs creaking even beneath her slight weight.

  
  


"Water?"

  
  


"Yeah, that'd be great," she smiles, nudging off each boot with the toes from her other foot.

  
  


When I return with a plastic cup full of well water and a wet cloth, both shoes are lying sideways on the floor in a heap, her socks rolled and crumpled next to them. She's leaning back on the armrest of the couch, eyes closed, folded hands cradling her head from behind and hidden in dark, wavy hair. She opens one eye, following my movements as I stand over her. "Thanks," she smiles, reaching towards me, moving back to make room for me on the cushion. She gulps quickly, emptying the vessel in mere seconds, then sets it aside.

  
  


"You were thirsty," I say, immediately embarrassed at my obvious observation. Her tongue peeks out to wet her dry lips. "I should have brought water for you earlier."

  
  


"You were too busy saving my ass to remember water. I'd say you're forgiven."

  
  


She's smiling so wide her eye teeth peek out at the corners of her mouth, fingers running along the middle part in her hair and pushing the long strands back from her tanned face. Her hands move so gracefully, firm and dancing a practiced motion. _She's an artist_ , I think. _Art is meant to captivate._ My dry tongue sticks to the roof of my dry mouth.

  
  


Her features shift when her hand trails the length of her part once more and ends at a patch of dried blood, scraping against the red with her thumb nail. "How bad does it look?" she winces.

  
  


"Let me clean it up and see where the blood came from." When she nods in agreement, I remove her glasses and press the wet towel to her forehead and, as gently as I can, start to wipe away the crust settled above her eye. It cleans off easily, only a few stubborn pieces put up a fight and hold on longer than the others before finally giving in to the pull of the towel. From below, I feel her watching me, eyes wide and lips parted. Her breath is even, gently blowing out and tickling the tiny hairs on my arms. Her body is relaxed, fully supported by the couch beneath her, content. I wonder what I must look like from her point of view. Hair askew, chin in the forefront. I wonder where her gaze is focused. The silent air between us is maddening and soothing at the same time.

  
  


Once most of the blood has been absorbed by the towel, I can see that the injury is only a tiny split in her skin, directly next to her hairline. A simple cleaning and a piece of medical tape should heal the wound easily.

  
  


"How do you feel?" I ask, pulling away, very consciously resting my hands in my own lap. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"

  
  


"I'm fine. Good as new." She shifts to sit up and grunts suddenly, one hand cupping protectively over her side. "Except that. That kinda hurts."

  
  


"May I?" I ask, reaching for the bottom hem of her shirt. But she beats me to it and lifts it herself, exposing her stomach and the bottom of her ribs in one swift motion, fabric bunched just below her breasts. Her stomach is pale against the brown skin of her arms, a gentle slope from her waist to the tops of her hips. A graceful line of charcoal across paper.

  
  


"How's it look, doc?"

  
  


She laughs, and I laugh nervously along with her, despite the fact that there is nothing funny about injured ribs. We look at the mark together—a long, grey bruise with tiny purple freckles dotted inside. I'm certain it will darken in the coming hours. I press against the surrounding skin, checking for tenderness. She winces, but there are no indications of anything major.

  
  


"Amputation is the only solution," I say, earning a snort in return.

  
  


"Rib amputation? I want a second opinion." She pulls her shirt back down, paler skin hidden beneath loose cotton.

  
  


"I am the only other person around for miles. Are you certain you're willing to take that chance?"

  
  


"Good point," she says, looking at me, an invisible string linking our pupils. Hers are dilated, the honey-brown of her irises only a thin band wrapped around deep black circles. Our jesting fades into quiet. And for a moment, silence. In my periphery her smile falls slowly, the corners of her mouth shifting from a smile into something more serious until we're stuck in each other's gaze and the sounds of the birds outside ricochet from the cabin walls.

  
  


Inside my skull, the ricochets continue. My own mind is so loud that I can't make out my thoughts. They run and blur together and culminate in a horrible, deafening, chaotic noise. I've heard it only once before—the moment I heard Maman's diagnosis. _Terminal_. At the time, I believed it was the sound of heartbreak or my world crumbling. But, right now, I don't feel heartbroken. My world isn't falling. It's rising.

  
  


I am _moved_ by her.

  
  


Chaos is _movement_.

  
  


I wonder what she is thinking—if her mind is as peaceful and calm as she looks. If she can make out the words that I cannot. If they are the same words as mine.

  
  


And I wonder if I cause chaos in her. If she is as moved as I am by our friendship.

  
  


And then she looks away, eyes darting to her fidgeting hands.

  
  


"You may have a mild concussion," I say to break the silence and silence the noise. "You need to take it easy for the rest of the day, but try to stay conscious if you can." I cup her ear, guide her back to face me so that I can look at her forehead. "I need to go get my kit to finish tending this."

  
  


"Okay," she smiles, and I go find my bag, a little lighter now after treating the ram's wound. She's in the same position when I return, face turned toward the window, afternoon sun casting a shadow against her cheekbone, the side of her nose. Without her glasses, she looks so much younger.

  
  


I settle in the same spot and clean the rest of her forehead. She winces at the alcohol but doesn't make a noise. I tape the split, fastening it awkwardly as I avoid taping the tiny wisps of hair at her hairline.

  
  


"You should have been a nurse. You're good at this stuff."

  
  


"Merci," I say. "I have had a lot of practice."

  
  


"Your vet training?"

  
  


"Partially. I also cared for my Maman last year while she was ill."

  
  


"Oh yeah?" she says, reaching back for her glasses and settling them on her nose. "She's better now?"

  
  


"Non," I pause. The zipper on the medical bag fills the air. "She died."

  
  


For a moment, the room feels heavy. My limbs and head are weighted with stones, memories that hold me down and welcome a familiar gloom. And then I feel her hand, warm and firm, resting gently over mine and squeezing. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she nearly whispers. “Was it sudden?”  
  


 

“It is always sudden.”  
  


 

She nods in agreement and squeezes my hand again. “You're right. It's too fast even when it's so, _so_ slow."

  
  


It’s in this moment, I realize: she's not trying to take care of me. She's not trying to distract me or tell me what I need. She's not trying to make me forget that Maman is gone or that I miss her in ways words fail to convey. She just sits here _with_ me. Her presence is focused and warm, pity noticeably and unexpectedly absent. Something else is in its place. Something I cannot pinpoint.

  
  


"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, watching me from behind her dusty lenses, bright copper eyes blurred by collected dust and pollen. "I know a little bit about what you're going through. My mom—she's sick, too."

  
  


I close my eyes and feel her phantom hand pressing at my hairline, cleaning my figmented wounds. She dresses the places I've been split open with gauze and tape. She treats me with a tenderness and openness not found in small towns, or in people who know you too well.

  
  


"Will she be okay?" I ask. "Is it serious?"

  
  


She lets out a sigh and shrugs, squeezes my hand once more and sits up, shifting her legs to hang over the side of the couch. "I could use some fresh air. Want to come with me?"

  
  


"Bien sûr," I nod.

  
  


_Anywhere,_ I hear in the back of my mind. And it scares me more than America and English and starting over combined.

  
  



	10. Dix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of your comments and support so far in this story!

Outside, the hum of a thousand cicadas blasts from the surrounding trees, their deep buzz sounding in seemingly every direction. It’s like this every evening. They begin around dusk, singing to their potential mates, luring in the females with their ear-shattering song. The sun is still up and already they are loud enough to prevent Cosima’s voice from reaching my ears. She is ahead of me, arm guarding her bruised side as she walks out toward the field. Profile against the forest, I watch her moving lips.

  
  


“What?” I project, and she turns fully towards me, pointing ahead of us, into the distance.

  
  


“What is that?” I hear her ask, her voice finally cutting through the symphony of insect clicks. I look in the direction of her extended arm and immediately see a scattering of white, fluttering objects. Most of them are collected in tall patches of grass, a few against a small berry bush. One lifts from the ground with a gust of wind and cyclones through the air, flapping in a familiar pattern.

  
  


My heart drops.

  
  


_ Mon dieu _ . Her drawings.

  
  


My legs take off towards the shivering papers, sprinting to gather them even as the wind blows them further and further out of reach. I had left her notebook hours ago, thrown to the ground in a panic—the notebook that she had hidden in a closet behind her childhood books. The notebook filled with intimate sketches of her family and sensuously-posed women. The notebook she had never invited me to look through. 

  
  


“Delphine!” she calls as I pass her, likely confused by my urgency. Confused as to why dozens of loose papers now decorate the vast prairie that surrounds us.

  
  


I reach the first cluster and bundle them safely in my arms. My eyes, perhaps too-consciously, search for the shape of a woman’s body. For some reason, the thought that Cosima might know that I’ve seen that drawing in particular causes sheer panic between my ears.  _ It’s only a body _ , I tell myself, haphazardly collecting papers beneath my elbow.  _ It’s only a woman’s body _ — _ not unlike the one you have seen in the mirror for years.  _ But I know it’s not true. What I saw before was not  _ just _ a body. This one was drawn with reverence, made sacred by charcoal and a lover’s gaze.

  
  


The cicadas are outright screaming.

  
  


“Where did these come from?” she yells, her voice cutting through the din, metres away. When I look up, she is holding a mess of papers in her arms, flipping through them with furrowed brows, her mouth agape. 

  
  


“I—” I begin, bending over to gather a few individual papers. “I was admiring your art."

  
  


"You looked through my  _ stuff? _ " Her arms fill by the second, each of us chasing after a few loose papers. The wind ceases for a moment, showing me mercy. "You had  _ no right! _ "

  
  


"Non—" I deny, even though I clearly  _ had _ , without question, invaded her privacy. Why else would we be out here, chasing drawings through highlands?

  
  


Cosima doesn't answer me, doesn't look at me. Her head is pointed down, back bending forward intermittently to gather more paper. The loss is stark, and it's already difficult to remember the warmth of her eyes, of her hand over mine. The warmth that had surrounded me only moments ago in the cabin. 

  
  


Some of the pages are stained with grass and dirt. Loose hair around my face blows into my mouth, my eyes. I bat it away, but it returns immediately, whipping against my skin. Relentless.

  
  


For minutes, we collect in silence. I am at a loss for what to say next; she holds her body rigid and frowns. I give up my search for the drawing of the woman when my eyes cross over a few with a similar theme. There is more than just the one. Even in my haste I appreciate the beauty of delicate lines and hard shadows. For a moment, they remind me of her face, standing in the shed on her family's farm, lit only with the sun glowing dimly through the dusty window. Hard and soft at the same time. 

  
  


She is so many things at once.

  
  


But the softness has faded into a quiet anger. I can tell by the way one arm quickly snatches up the quivering pages and the other stays pinned against her side. I can't see her face, but I can feel her.

  
  


And I need to make this better. 

  
  


"Cosima, I was not trying to—I didn't know—I am sorry!" I start to say. But she is already turned toward the cabin, already stalking away through the tall grass, already swinging open the door and disappearing inside. 

  
  


At the edge of the fence, I find the leather binding that once held the entire collection. It's spread open on the ground, holding only a few drawings that have not yet flown away.

  
  


"You stupid, stupid thing!  _ Stupide _ !" I chastise, yanking it up and trapping the loose papers back into their original resting place.  _ Stupide _ .

  
  


But, it didn't walk outside and open itself.

  
  


I look up. The lone shelter that we share sits up a slight hill, unassuming. I am both drawn towards and repelled by the cabin. I know she is in there, waiting and stewing. I know she's upset with me, the knowledge of which is both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. What I do not know is how this will end. With Christophe, our arguments are predictable and practiced; I can hear the finish before it even starts. I know how to maneuver myself, how to protect, and how to strike. I feel so constricted by his assumption of my staticity, and yet I am guilty of the same presumptions towards him. 

  
  


Here, I am out of my element. So much of Cosima is a mystery, both intriguing and maddening. 

  
  


At the tip of my tongue, the faint taste of blood pulls me back into my body from my spinning mind. My bottom lip has torn open from the relentless worrying by my teeth. I run my tongue along the opening and lick away any remnants of injury. I find that it isn't sore or raw, merely irritated.

  
  


And then, I’m at the door, pulling open the screen because if I think about this for a second more, I might lose my nerve and spend the night in the barn. 

  
  


Inside, she sits at the table, hunched over, sorting through the sheets rapidly.

  
  


“Here are the rest,” I say. She reaches one arm back without turning to face me, her hand open, demanding to be filled with papers—with proof of my betrayal. I concede and clear my throat as she jerks the leather binder and drawings to the table. 

  
  


I shift my weight to one hip. Then, the other.

  
  


I sigh. 

  
  


"I am so sorry, Cosima. I should have asked first. But I was looking for a book to read and—" 

  
  


She cranes her neck to look back at me, her eyes red with tears or anger or maybe a mixture, arm propped forward over the table. The other hand sifts through the collection of drawings, placing them back in order. The tape against her hairline is peeling back, unstuck with the aid of perspiration. 

  
  


I have never seen her like this. Since our first moment together, she has been teasing words and understanding eyes and such unbelievable warmth. Now she is nothing but fire, burning and consuming—her eyes, her demeanor, repelling me with a force that has me stepping back, averting my gaze. Her nostrils flare. Her bottom lip trembles quickly before she stiffens it again. She looks betrayed. She looks terrified. 

  
  


_ Pssh _ , she hisses, and looks back at the table, at the wrinkled, dirt-marked paper. She flips through them quickly, filing them away in an order she seems to know by heart. 

  
  


"This is  _ private _ , Delphine. There's... private stuff in here. I didn't exactly want to share it with  _ you _ , okay?"

  
  


"Cosima, I don't know why you're so afraid. They're beautiful! They're—"

  
  


" _ Not yours! _ "

  
  


The bite in her voice startles me. In a way, I understand her distress. Her beautiful artwork has been tarnished by my carelessness. She has probably spent years of her life perfecting the details in those sketches. But this feels like something more.

  
  


"Are you upset because you think I saw—”  _ Merde _ .  _ Don't say it, Delphine. _ “ The pictures of the farm, of your family—.”

  
  


"Look, they’re  _ my _ memories, okay?  _ My _ moments. Imagine if I just got in your head and looked at a bunch of really private, meaningful times in your life— _ without _ your permission—and then, on my way out, dragged them through some mud and scattered them across a field."

  
  


"I didn't meant to—"

  
  


"Yeah, but Delphine,  _ you did _ . What you  _ didn't _ do is wonder why I might have a whole bunch of drawings hidden in the back of a closet in the middle of the mountains!" She's nearly yelling by the end of the phrase, the last point reverberating from the cabin walls. 

  
  


And in that moment, I think I finally understand her red-rimmed eyes and her sharp words. She keeps them here because she can't take them back with her. They don't belong there: The arc of a graceful foot, a simply-draped white sheet across a tanned torso. The outline of a mother she seems almost scared to speak of. The profile of a sister who left her here, a twin she called selfish without further explanation.

  
  


"Cosima, please believe me. I apologize, I made a mistake when I looked at something that was not mine to see." Her shoulders relax visibly beneath her shirt, muscles loosening. I step closer, rest my hand near hers on the table. She looks down, her other hand coming up to press the tape on her forehead back down against her skin. For a moment it feels bearable again, the air between us. Her gaze rises to meet mine. She's not smiling, but at least she's looking at me without that blazing fire behind her eyes. 

  
  


And then I say something at the same time that it crosses my mind. "I don't think differently of you."

  
  


The moment my mouth forms the syllables—such a simple collection of sounds—the regret hits me all at once. Her shoulders are no longer slack. Her hand pulls off from the table and rises to rub circles at the back of her neck. She turns to face away from me again. I watch a shaky breath travel in and out of her lungs, her ribs separating and stuttering painfully. One hand clutches at her bruised side.

  
  


"Wow," she mutters, a spiteful laugh. It cuts deeply and I deserve it. "Wow. Well,  _ thank you _ for your  _ understanding _ ." She sniffles, wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve. She turns again and runs a hand through her hair, fingers starting at the front and working their way back in a move I've seen time and time again over the past few weeks. As usual, a tight knot forms in my stomach. "Why did you even come up here with me, Delphine?" Her voice is small, if only for a moment. It lures me out. It backs me in.

  
  


"I wanted experience with animals—"

  
  


My body jumps reflexively as her closed fist slams suddenly against the table. "No, that's a bullshit answer! You could have gotten that in town. So, tell me.  _ Why _ did you come up here? Why would you leave your new husband and new home behind to ride into the mountains with some stranger?"

  
  


"I told you, I wanted to tend to a herd on my own—to see that the lambs grow healthy and—."

  
  


"That's  _ bullshit _ !" she says, looking at me over glasses that have now slipped down her nose.

  
  


"It's not!"

  
  


"It  _ is _ ! You told me you got married so quickly that there wasn't even time for a honeymoon. Well, look around, sweetheart," she nearly laughs, spreads her arms wide. "You're on it."

  
  


I feel the pointed implications of her words, an assertion that I took this job to rid myself of the realities of my marriage. Deep inside, a thick cord has been struck, vibrating its unfamiliar note all the way up my throat until it explodes from my mouth. 

  
  


“ You know  _ nothing _ about my relationship. You know  _ nothing _ of what Christophe means to me!”

  
  


"You're right! And you know why?" She leans in towards me, voice low and powerful. One arm props her slight frame over the kitchen table, still littered with evidence of my crime. Her face is so close to mine I can feel her breath on my cheek. But this isn't intimate; it's predatory. “Because you never  _ ever _ talk about him! If I wouldn't have met him, I'd be seriously doubting he even exists! I keep  _ forgetting _ . I keep having to  _ remind myself _ over and over that you’re married because the idea seems so goddamn far-fetched!"

  
  


Another cord, another vibration. Another unfamiliar note in my mouth.

  
  


"I came because I wanted something for myself! Something entirely my own—something I did because I  _ wanted _ to and not because it was expected of me, or someone else thought I needed it!" I announce, louder than anything I've ever said in her presence. And she looks startled by the confession. She looks almost hurt. But her eyes dart all across my face, her lips parted slightly, gaze wide and curious.

  
  


Suddenly, I am bare. She looks at me with her x-ray eyes, examining the most hidden parts of me with ease. I can't remember the last time someone looked at me this way—searching without demanding, wondering without assigning meaning. Yes, Christophe knows me well, perhaps better than anyone on this planet. But it's second nature. There is no need to explore. So he doesn't.

  
  


And I can’t help but wonder how many of her previous words were stone-cold truth, cannon-balled from her mouth unexpectedly by a short-lit fuse.

  
  


"What do you want from... all this?" she asks me gently, as if the question isn't  _ actually _ the question. "What if—"

  
  


She stops herself. I can see the strain on her face, teeth gritted, jaw clenching. I wonder about the end of that sentence. I wonder where she would have let herself venture with less discipline. 

  
  


_ What if? _

  
  


Such a simple question. 

  
  


But suddenly I'm standing at the edge of the dam in La Tuque, toes curling over cement and steel, the force of Rivière Croche threatening to push me over the edge from behind, threatening to drown me in icy, foamy water. At the edge of Rue Montcalm, across the vast expanse of Rivière Saint-Maurice, stands Christophe, stands Maman, stands a whole town, a whole world of people shouting and waving for me to fall back, to dive into the still waters behind me and save myself. They see the disaster that awaits. They watch helplessly, their shouts barely a whimper by the time they meet my ears, but I can see that their faces are pink, their necks strained from yelling. 

  
  


_ What if?  _ I ask, looking down, the kilometers-long drop to the foaming water below.

  
  


Surely the answer to that question would leave me floundering, spinning beneath the surface without a shred of hope for survival. Surely I would die there, lungs full of water, wondering  _ How did I get here? Why did I ever stand on the edge of that dam to begin with? _

  
  


Or maybe,  _ just maybe _ , I would learn how to swim.

 

 


	11. Onze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a mini chapter for you all, my babiez. Plz send tea and donuts. 
> 
> Don't worry, we're still on for our regular Friday update.

 

 

I realize where I’m standing when the door closes behind me.

 

The bunk beds are stacked across the small space, top mattress bare while the bottom has been neatly tucked in at the corners, a thick gray blanket pulled tight and a floral-printed pillow propped up at the head. Straight lines blur into watercolor; the pressure of a contained sob force my throat and eyes to sting in unison.

 

How different the world looked this morning as I pulled and tucked the blankets into place. How easy it was to believe that anything could be folded away and neatly concealed.

 

I don’t remember how I got here. I’m certain that I walked here myself, but the thought process involved in leaving the room mid-argument remains hazy and subconscious. My eyes burn so badly I worry they might pop right out of my head.

 

I feel ill. Paralyzed.

 

And so, so tired.

 

Cosima drags her feet across the floor on the other side of the door. Her footsteps fade. I hear the front door open and shut. Silence.

 

The burn travels from my eyes to my throat until both are squeezed tight and the tears begin without my consent. _Merde_ . I don’t even know _why_ I’m crying. Possibly a reflex to the world growing larger, more terrifying. I wrap my arms around myself—as I often have whilst feeling miserable and hopeless—and fall forward onto the bed. I twist in the taut sheets, the seamless edges pulling from the corners until I am cocooned in gray knit and floral prints. Already, the pillow is uncomfortably damp and cold, muscles unable to control their pitiful shivers, my body instinctively curling in on itself.

 

_What do you want from… all this?_ she’d asked me. I can still see her—eyes focused and boring into mine from across the table. Her body had looked so steady, voice soft in contrast to her previous harsh tones. What had she meant by that? What did I want from _her_ ? From _myself_ ? What did I want for _my life_?

 

_What do I want?_ I ask myself, no answer coming forth. Weeks ago, it felt so easy: _I want to make choices for myself,_ I’d told Christophe. I’d practically yelled it in his face.

 

And now? My reasons for being here feel so cloudy, illusive. Except, I know that the smoke and mirrors are of my own design.

 

_That’s bullshit!_ she'd yelled, eyes aflame. Everything about her tone implied a hidden meaning—one that, even now, I push against, resisting with every remaining stable part of myself. We’re both talking _about_ _it_ , around it, both afraid to say it in case it’s not what the other was actually thinking.

 

But, _if_ I’m going to be blatantly honest, it’s better to do this alone, in the seclusion of my own mind.

 

Okay, _okay_.

  


I feel... _something_.

  


I hug the pillow tighter and bury my face, hide my shame from the light coming in through the window.

  


I try again.

  


I feel _something_ — new and incomprehensible. Something others have told me exists between myself and Christophe. _Once in a lifetime,_ they said. _Such a pull between you two. Most people don't ever find that_.

  


And in a way, they are right—Christophe and I _are_ connected. We know each other well and it feels almost predestined that we would be in each other’s lives. But growing to love him happened slowly, cautiously, and at the behest of our entire town. This feels _different_ ; I have been caught up in this whirlwind, carried away, thrashed from side to jagged side. I didn’t settle into this slowly—I jumped in, head first. Ravenous.

  


In the name of honesty and the security of mind-seclusion, I can admit that I felt _it_ from the very beginning. There, in the barn, her hair swept back, kneeling by the laboring ewe. I felt something rise up inside of me—something that feels _once in a lifetime._ _An easy pull._ And despite my best efforts to keep it hidden from consciousness, both Christophe and Cosima saw through my involuntary disguise and named it in their own ways before I could fathom the thought on my own.

  


_I’m not sending you into the mountains to play house, am I?_

  


_Why did you even come up here with me?_

  


I meditate on the quick tightening in my body, the pervasive infatuation that seems to take control of my mind whenever she is around.

 

It’s in this moment here—wrapped in a stale blanket on Cosima’s childhood bed, waves of exhaustion mingling with a few lingering sniffles—that I can finally admit, _if only to myself_ , that I have fallen for her.

  


I didn’t want to. I wasn’t supposed to. But, I have.

 

  
And I can never tell a soul.

 


	12. Douze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had a horrible fucking day. Just, the worst. Fuck this day.
> 
> And also, here's an update.

 

When I wake, the sun has been replaced by a near-startling darkness, the moon a mere sliver between open curtains. My muscles ache in that way they usually do after a good cry, creaking and slothlike, in need of a stretch. Already, I can feel the puffiness around my eyes, cheek pressed against a still-damp pillow.

  


The familiar sound of the front screen opening and shutting sneaks under the door and reminds me of the chores she must have had to finish on her own. The chores she completed when she should have been resting, likely concussed, and not lifting buckets of water or pushing closed iron gates. The guilt hits me in an exasperated sort of way, already defeated and beaten down by today’s many taxing events.

  


I sit up hunched over, reflexively protecting my head from smacking against the bed frame as it did for the first week or so. The bump has healed and I don't desire a new one.

  


I listen to her move around some more, her boots landing in two thunks against the floor as she removes them. She mumbles something to herself and turns on the kitchen sink. A few dishes clink against each other. I can see her in my mind's eye, an image compiled from three weeks of watching her stand at the window over the sink, sipping coffee from her signature mug or smiling at the dogs playing in the yard. It's nearly impossible to imagine her _there,_ angry or despondent. My heart clenches with the reminder of how we left things earlier—or rather, the state of our argument when I'd suddenly left the room. I'd left her injured and violated, clearly flustered, without an extra hand to close up the barn for the night.

  


And her head. Her bleeding head. _Merde_.

  


I run my palms over my face, attempting to clear away the puffiness, smooth out the sleep lines. My fingers work their way through the mess of my hair, wildly wavy and tangled at the tips.

  


I can't ponder if I'm _ready_ to see her—if I have the guts to look her in the eye, knowing now my true feelings toward her. I can't mull over if I have the strength to lie again and again, because she is injured and I have neglected her for long enough while I nursed my wounds and felt sorry for myself. I don't have the _time_ , so I stand up and find the bag on the floor and reach for the cool door handle.

  


And then I'm met with her face more quickly than I thought I would be. She's standing in front of me, socked feet against worn wood, holding a tray of steaming food with bent elbows.

  


"Hey," she says softly. "I figured you needed to eat." She shrugs and gestures the tray towards me. It hits me that she looks so very distinctly not upset. So very distinctly warm.

  


It's only at her words that I realize exactly how hungry I am. I haven't eaten since breakfast—distracted from our normal routine by so many outlying incidents—and my mouth waters at the scent of warm beans cooked with freshly-picked herbs. At the side of the bowl sits a single slice of bread, probably a gift from Ennis she'd carried with her halfway up the mountain.

  


"I thought you might need a new bandage," I reply, raising the hand that holds the bag.

  


She nods and takes a step towards me. "May I?"

  


"Bien sûr," I agree and step back into my darkened room. Painfully, my pulse quickens at her close proximity. I stand there, frozen and dumb, watching her bend over to set down the tray and light the small lantern next to the window until the whole room becomes bathed in muted orange. And when she turns around and stands at her full height, her eyeline raised to meet mine, I find that it’s not as difficult to stare into them as I’d imagined. Somehow, the honesty of my previous thoughts has allowed me to fall fully into her gaze without that slight bit of hesitance that held me back before, the uncertainty involved in not fully understanding what _all of this_ truly is.

  


But now I do. And I can’t _unknow_ it.

  


But, she can’t _know_ it either.

  


So, I look away. I sit on the bed and pull the tray onto my knees and take the spoon between my fingers. I take the first bite and ignore the way the mattress sinks as she sits next to me. I swallow and try to forget the shape of her back as she bends over to rummage through the bag of antibiotics and bandages. I bring the bread to my mouth and tune out the sound of breath leaving and entering her lungs, the sounds of my own heart slamming against my ribs. I wonder if I should speak first, but resolve to keep my mouth full instead. Better that than blurting out exactly what I have promised myself to keep inside.

  


To tell Cosima would be a burden. It would weigh her down with little chance of resolution in the two months still ahead of us. Even if she could feel the same—even if there was a _chance_ —I have made promises to other people. I have a ring on my hand that has formed a tan line around my third finger and a dent in my skin. I have memories of Maman, pale and eaten-away, making me promise her to find stability and happiness. And this feels anything but stable.

  


It would be _unfair_ to tell her, right?

  


And I’m not even sure what I would say if I could. All the thoughts from before are still swirling around, taunting me with their presence, unwilling to slow so that I may fully examine them.

  


She sits up with a fresh roll of tape in one hand and peels back the dirty piece barely hanging on at her hairline with the other. Once it’s off, she folds it in on itself and tucks it in the front pocket of her jeans.

  


“Here, let me,” I say, setting the half-eaten bowl on the ground. She offers me the tape and I’m careful to avoid touching her skin as I pull it into mine and rip a piece off. She tips her chin up and looks at me, offering me a better angle to view the cut, which is healing nicely. But I can feel her eyes on me as I patch her up, watch her gaze drift between my features. The tiny hairs there tickle the tips of my fingers.

  


“Hey,” she sighs, drawing our eyes together. “I shouldn’t have said all that from before. I was upset and I didn’t mean—” she tightens her jaw quickly and blinks slowly to gather her words. “I don’t want you to think that _I_ _think_ you’ve had it easy. I was thinkin’ about it the whole time I was closing down the barn and came to the conclusion that wasn’t my place to say all that about your marriage. Truth is... I don’t know anything about Christophe. He seemed like a real nice guy when I met him.” She looks away as she says it, lets out a slow breath. “And I shouldn’t care anyway. I mean, we’re just two farm hands, keeping a flock of sheep for the summer.”

  


Stones. A stomach full of stones.

  


“Non, we are more than that,” I correct. “We are _friends_ . And it is normal to want to know more about my life,” I say. And it’s not exactly untrue. We _are_ friends, regardless of my apparent feelings towards her.

  


“Yeah, of course. I guess I’m just trying to say: I’m sorry for assuming things, and for calling you a liar. I get that way sometimes when I’m pissed. Kind of… runs in the family, I guess.”

  


I laugh, despite myself. I laugh because her assumptions have morphed into truth and _she_ is apologizing for knowing what I felt before I did.

  


“Well, you had every right to be upset. I broke your trust and ruined your drawings—”

  


“—Yeah, I can’t talk about that right now. Still bit of a sore subject.”

  


“Yes, of course.” I reply, my heart sinking. But when I lift my gaze, she’s watching me intently, eyes dark behind her glasses, her mouth in a crooked line. “They truly are beautiful. You have a gift.”

  


“No, I have a _hobby_ ,” she scoffs.

  


“Non, I am serious. You can evoke so much… _emotion_ . Such conflict,” I say, and immediately wonder if her work is conflicting only for myself. Perhaps it would seem simpler if another hand had drawn it—another mind had thought it into existence. Her mind, her body, her _whole being_ has me simultaneously wrapped in comfort and tied in knots. She pushes herself back on the bed, rests her back against the wall and pulls the pillow up to her chest, cradling it in bare arms. “You could make a living with it, I’m certain. There was a woman in La Tuque who would sit on her front porch and paint all day, mostly flowers and other scenery. She sold her paintings at a small shop in town and supported herself on that income for years. And your art is so much _more…”_ I trail, my English vocabulary failing to convey the depth of my meaning. I rub the tips of my fingers against one another, searching for the correct word.

  


“You think I could be an _artist_ ?” she laughs, as though I’d suggested something completely ridiculous. As if I’d just told her she could learn to fly. She leans her head back against the wall briefly, the lamp’s glow illuminating the exposed hollow of her throat until she tips her head up once more and looks me dead in the eye. “Look, I'm all that my dad has left. And one day, when he dies, all of this is going to be on _me_ . The ranch will be mine—all of the animals and all of the farm hands will rely on _my_ success to earn their keep."

  


“Do you _want_ to run the ranch?”

  


"I don’t see a way around it,” she sighs, shrugs her shoulders. “Haven't you ever done something because it was your only choice?"

  


_So many things. Too many to name,_ I think.

  


And I nod, but it feels irrelevant.

  


"There is no plan B. Okay? There's no second choice for me. Sarah made that decision for both of us."

  


Hearing her sister’s name feels foreign. It hasn’t left her lips since that day in the barn when she placed Sarah’s hat on my head and complimented my eyes. I shiver at the memory, her face so similar now as it had been then—hidden in shadows and dim light. "What do you mean?" I ask, inviting her to elaborate, but careful to not intrude. I’ve already done enough of that for today.

  


"She just sorta took off,” she replies, unable to meet my eyes any longer.

  


I can tell this is difficult for her and the fact that she’s speaking so freely after today’s events both thrills and terrifies me. So, I wait. I let the moment settle. I let her decide what to share and when. She takes a deep breath and brings a hand to push back the hair from her face, lifts her glasses to rub the tension between her eyes.

  


“Mom got sick ‘bout… nine months ago? At first, it was little things I noticed that were different with her. Like, she would get confused about where she left something, or couldn’t remember a word or a recipe she’d made a thousand times. And then she would get lost driving into town or go out for a ride and get in after dark because she was turned around on the trails. Once we finally figured out what was happening, she was getting confused even at where she was in the house or walking away from a lit stove. And when she started forgetting who we were, Sarah couldn’t take it anymore. She left dad and me to make all the decisions while she went _lookin’ for herself_ , or some bullshit. She calls every now and then, asking for money for a bus ticket home, but somehow she never seems to make it back.

  


“And dad’s not exactly a spring chicken. I’d say in the next ten years or so, he’ll want to hand over the bulk of the farm duties to someone else.” Cosima rolls her eyes, exasperated all over again by her sister’s disappearance.

  


“And your mother? How is she now?”

  


“She’s worse, still at home. We try to keep her inside and calm. Gets pissed real easy,” she says with a sad smile. "Mama’s like a ghost of herself now. She doesn't remember me most days, and sometimes she calls me Sarah."

_You_ do _have the same face_ , I think, but keep the thought from filling the air between us. I’ve let too much leave unchecked already today.

  


“That must be difficult,” I tell her, “to see her that way.” I reach over without meaning to, place one hand over the top of hers, stroke my thumb against the back of her knuckles and feel sparks build and crackle immediately under my skin. Her eyes glance down at the place where our hands touch, her eyes wide like she can feel it, too. But, I experience every bit of her sadness reflected in myself—I relive every moment of watching the woman who grew me, birthed me, raised me, taught me, comforted me, protected me, dreamed for me, wilt away like a thirsty plant in the sun.

  


I watch her face intently, see the slight tremble in her lower lip as it pouts. “I know it’s stupid, but I want the credit for being there." She lifts her thumb to meet mine, strokes my hand in the same way I’d done to her. Her other hand lifts to the corner of one eye, swipes away a gathering tear. She sighs. A small, exhausted laugh passes her chapped lips. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I think I’m just exhausted. And my head is still pounding.”

  


“You should get some rest,” I agree.

  


She lets out a long sigh and starts to sit up, obviously intending to relocate to her bedroom for the night. Our joined hands fall apart and she ducks her head, careful not to hit it on the wood above us.

  


“Wait,” I say, resisting the urge to pull her back next to me. “Stay.”

  


“You want me to stay?” she asks, a small smirk on her mouth.

  


It feels dangerous. And it sends a thrill right through me.

  


“Y-yes,” I stutter, grasping for the closest line of reasoning “If you were concussed during your fall, it is vital that you not stay unconscious for longer than a few hours at a time. I will have to wake you through the night. It will be easier if you are here.”

  


“Hmm,” she nods. “I think I’ve heard of that before.”

  


She accepts my words easily, exhaustion preventing her from exploring a more logical solution to our sleeping arrangement. She accepts my words so quickly that the lamp is turned down and she is removing her glasses and folding herself up to fit on one half of the twin bed within a matter of seconds. Her head is nestled against one corner of the pillow, loose hair settled on the fabric beneath. I lay mine at the other corner and watch her eyes close.

  


After a few minutes, my vision adjusts and her features come once more into focus. I allow myself to examine her, uninhibited, without a hint of self-consciousness. I allow myself to take in the small freckle in the middle of her cheek, the glowing white teeth between her parted lips, the tiny wisps of hair that frame her face and ear.

  


If I cannot pursue the startling realizations that she evokes within me, perhaps I can at least have _this_ —a stolen moment next to her, curled up on her childhood bed, our legs folded up and knees so close to touching. At least for one night I can be lulled to sleep by the sweet cadence of her deepening breath, the warmth of her body close enough to feel through the clothes I am too content to consider changing.

  


If I cannot have her in any other way, maybe this is enough.

  


“Delphine?” she whispers suddenly, her eyes still closed. “Are you awake?”

  


“Oui.”

  


She pauses, and for a moment I wonder if I spoke too softly for her to hear, or if maybe she is talking in her sleep, or maybe I imagined her speaking my name at all. But, then the silence between us is broken by the noise of her mouth opening, of her tongue wetting her lips.

  


“I get why you looked. At the pictures, I mean. I’ve been a bit closed off. And I can be protective about what I share with others.”

  


She pauses again, possibly awaiting a reply. But I’m not sure of the appropriate response.

  


_Yes, you have been. Let me know everything about you._

  


“I keep them here because I can’t bring them home. They just don’t… _fit_ in that world.” She tugs the knit blanket up to her chin, eyes still shut. “Do you understand?”

  


“Yes,” I whisper. “I think I do.”

  


“Bon,” she answers. “Fais de beaux rêves.”

  


My lips pull into a smile at her growing French vocabulary and slightly-improved pronunciation, still adorably heavy with her American accent.

  


“À toi aussi,” I reply, and the sounds of nighttime settle once more between us.  Cicadas buzz through the window pane, singing for love like their life depends on it, because it does.

  


Her breathing slows and deepens until I am certain she is asleep.

  


All this time, I’ve seen her as free, taking in the world and breathing out life. Completely unencumbered. But the strings that tie her down have started to show themselves, pulling taut against the strain between two selves—a dissonance that strikes me as all too familiar.

  


And I wonder if she feels stuck here, too, between what is and what could possibly be.

  


I wonder if she feels just as stuck as I do.

 

 


	13. Treize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I just wanted to take a minute and say thanks for all of your lovely comments on the past two chapters. I have read them and loved them all equally.**
> 
> **But, I have been feeling incredibly sad and empty and depressed since last Friday after an event at work. It's really uncomfortable and I feel sort of lost, as a huge part of my identity is wrapped up in being positive and focusing on the good, making lemonade out of lemons, and all that. Right now, it's really hard to feel anything other than blue. This story is one of the few things that is helping me feel better, and I'm so thankful for all of your support. I promise to respond to every comment just as soon as my head stops spinning.**

Today is a Wednesday, I think. Mostly, I am oriented by counting backwards from or towards the day Cosima meets Ennis in the lowlands to trade bags of beans, coffee, and dried meat for an update on the herd. Each day runs into the next up here, so it is difficult to keep track. She's leaving again in two days, so today  _ must  _ be a Wednesday.

  
  


Cosima sits next to me, legs stretched out in front of her and face tilted towards the sun. A fishing pole she found in the barn rests in her hand, unmoving. She hums lightly to herself a tune that I’ve never heard before, a sound I can barely make out over the steady trickling of the river in front of us. Her pole hasn’t moved since she threw the line twenty minutes ago, but she waits patiently, as if we have all the time in the world. And, right now, we do. 

  
  


The sheep and horses graze in the field behind us. One dog is tucked up against my side, my fingers tangled in his long black and white mane as he snores, belly warming in the sun. The other walks along the edge of the river, water climbing up the dense fur of his legs and shrinking them from fluffy to bony. Even while off-the-clock, his eyes dart back and forth amongst the herd, making sure no one wanders off too far.

  
  


I have survived nearly a week of stolen touches and glances, locking my truth tightly away, burying it beneath a harsh reminder of the vows that I have made and the people I have made them to: Christophe, Maman, and myself. Ironically, the vows that keep me from falling into these desires are the same ones that put me here, in her life and into the mountains. First, the promise to Maman to find a way to support myself and pursue veterinary training, then another promise to her to find a stable life for myself—one with a husband who would stand by my side through whatever life would bring, a husband who would not leave me alone with an infant, never to be heard from again. Very adamantly, she did not want my life to resemble hers.

  
  


Though, I believe that if she were alive—and if she did not know the depth for which I care for Cosima—Maman would take an immediate liking to her. I think she would find her strong and kind.

  
  


The other vow I have made to Christophe is precisely the one that allowed me into this country, the one that brought me to Buffalo and into the highlands with nothing but a flock of sheep and three months alone with this warm, creative woman who has stirred up more perplexing emotions in me than anyone before her.

  
  


“Whoa!” she says, sitting up to grip the pole. The tip dips with a gentle tug on the other end. “I didn’t think I’d get lucky this soon! Can you put some water in the bucket?”

  
  


“Okay!” I take the bucket in my hands and dunk it once at the water’s edge to rinse out the winter’s worth of cobwebs and dirt, then pull it out, full of cold, clear water.

  
  


She jerks the line back quickly, spins the reel with one hand and repeats, her muscles flexing in a dance I have not yet watched her perform. She sways and jerks for a few moments more, her tongue peeking out between her teeth in concentration until, finally, the line emerges with a wiggling spotted fish at the end. It is large—larger than I thought she would catch on her first try. Cosima seems pleased with herself as she wraps her hand around its widest part and compresses the top fin before tugging the hook from its mouth.

  
  


“ Dinner!” she says, and holds it up next to her face, pointing it at me. “And look, I think he wants a kiss.” She laughs cheekily, putting her lips together and drawing a loud  _ smoooch  _ sound from them. 

  
  


“Non,” I giggle, pushing away her hand, the fish still wiggling in her grip.

  
  


“Not even one kiss? He’s in his last few hours of life, Delphine.” She laughs harder, completely satisfied and giddy with her humor.

  
  


“Non! Under no circumstances will I kiss a fish!”

  
  


“Oookay,” she snorts and turns the fish towards herself. “I’m sorry, partner. She says no. In the bucket you go.”

  
  


The fish plops into the water with a small splash and follows the wall around and around until he finally slows, perhaps recognizing his fate. Cosima picks up the pole and pulls the hook taut against one of the rings, preparing it once more for the two hours of travel back to the cabin. 

  
  


“Best not to catch more than we can eat in one night,” she explains. “Besides, I figured today would be a good day for a wash, too. The sun’s out, so our clothes will dry fast.”

  
  


“Here?” I ask. All of our laundry and bathing so far has happened back at the cabin, pumping water from the well and washing the clothes with a simple soap before hanging them to dry on the line outside, or heating the water up on the wood stove and washing myself with a cloth and a bar of soap in the bathroom. I haven’t had more than a bird bath in weeks. The idea of submerging myself in a body of water sounds refreshing. 

  
  


“Yeah, here, in the river. That’s the old fashioned way to bathe during transhumance. Months in the mountains with no way to heat water—plus, there’s nothing like a cold dip in the river to wake you up in the morning!” She rummages through her knapsack and pulls out a small bar of soap, the same one that usually sits at the edge of the kitchen sink. “Do what you like,” she grins. “But I’m cleaning up.”

  
  


She wastes no time pulling off her button down and slipping her undershirt over her head until she is in her bra, feet kicking off her boots, her hair tugged out of a low pony tail and draped over her shoulders. 

  
  


Logically, I know this is nothing more than a way to get clean, the act both domestic and platonic. I have certainly changed in front of female friends before with a nonchalance brought on by the similarities of our bodies. Yet, as she unloops the top button of her jeans and tucks her thumbs below the hem, I cannot help but look away, knowing that my gaze could not be indifferent towards her form, my mind dangerously curious about what lies beneath. This is not the first time I have allowed myself to wonder what beauty marks might be hidden from my gaze, the angles of slopes and planes where muscle meets curve, if her whole body looks as delicate yet strong as her arms.

  
  


I look away because if I knew the answers to those questions—if all of my hypotheticals were suddenly replaced with realities—it would become impossible to explain this away as simple curiosity, as unconfirmed lust. I look away because if I saw her, I know what would rise up in me. And I know it would be hard to tame.

  
  


So, instead, I keep my head down. I focus on untying my shirt and pulling off my pants while keeping my back to her. I leave my undergarments on as I walk into cool water, eyes still averted, and the drastic change in temperature sending a series of shivers up my body. But it’s that refreshing kind of cold. The one that wakes me up—snaps me out of my head and right back into my body.

  
  


I don’t turn around, but I hear her. I hear her swishing her clothes in the water. I hear her beating wet fabric against the rocks, knocking out dirt and seeds and horse hair. I hear her stumbling back up into the shore and shaking them all out, laying them to dry in the field beside us. I hear all of this while my bare hands turn pink in the chilled river water, as I twist and twist my shirt and pants, attempting to loosen the dust and stains that have settled in their fibers. And just as I finish, just as I pull them from the stream and wring them out, I hear her gasp behind me in surprise, I hear a quick splash of water as she submerges her whole body, and then silence.

  
  


I find my way out of the water, river rocks poking and jabbing into the soles of my feet until I finally reach the grass and lay out my damp clothes next to hers to dry in the warmth of the sun. Her jeans, her shirts, her socks, her underwear, her bra. All laid out flat in front of me.

  
  


“Clothes all clean?” she asks me from the river. I can hear the smile in her speech.

  
  


“Yes,” I answer, conflicted as to what to do about my undergarments. 

  
  


“I have the soap if you want to wash.”

  
  


I steal another look at her clothes. Simple white cotton underwear, simple white bra with a small pink bow set between the cups. A familiar tightening begins in my chest, anxiety overtaking my respiratory system at the thought that I may very well turn around to find her naked and bathing in a stream.

  
  


I breathe out. I shake my head. I turn, shivering in the slight breeze.

  
  


To my great relief, only her head peeks out from the top of moving water, the rest of her body submerged in the dark, glassy river. She tips backwards, rinsing her hair, arms coming up briefly to run her fingers through long, dark strands. Then, she looks up at me and smiles one of those stomach-clenchingly beautiful smiles.

  
  


I walk in quickly, very aware of her direct gaze, very aware that I am still wearing my undergarments, very self-consciously falling forward into the water to cover myself more quickly.

  
  


“You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before,” she laughs, and her words send a blush up into my cheeks, even with the prickles of frigid water against my skin. This is as cold as the water in La Tuque. “Here,” she calls, tossing the tan bar of soap in my direction. “I’m all done.”

  
  


I catch the soap with both hands and watch as she goes below the surface again, disappearing with nothing but a ripple. I wash quickly, slipping my hands beneath wet fabric to cleanse hidden skin. And when she breaches the surface again, I work up a lather against my scalp. 

  
  


I watch her toss back the wet hair stuck to her ncheeks. I watch her blow a few drops of water from her lips and run her hands across her face, bobbing up and down, eyes closed and face towards the sun. Hypnotized, I watch every little movement she makes. 

  
  


“You know what I was thinking?” she asks suddenly, startling me into washing again, this time beneath my arms. I bring the bar of soap up to my neck and coax it into bubbles.

  
  


“Hmm?”

  
  


“ We should have a fire tonight. Outside, I mean. Gorgeous day today, so I bet it’ll be a gorgeous night to match.  _ And _ tonight is a full moon,” she says, as if a glowing circle in the sky is a perfectly logical reason to sit by a fire. “Besides, my dad has a couple jars full of moonshine hidden on top of the fridge. He thinks I don’t know, but Sarah and I found them as teenagers. Took us about one sniff to realize what it was and before we knew it we were gettin’ ripped in the barn.” 

  
  


She laughs to herself and twists her hair around at the back of her head, wringing out drops of river water. I laugh along with her at my immediate vision of her description: a younger Cosima, leaning back against cobwebbed barn walls with a jar in her hand, head dipping in drunken laughter. Ever since that night in the bottom bunk, she has been opening up to me little by little, sharing tiny memories and glimpses into her past. And although I have gathered enough of them to string together a simple timeline of her life, there are still places I can feel her holding back. Still so many of her truths left to discover.

  
  


I watch her lean forward and push toward the shore. I watch her spin around and smile at me one last time. “Whaddya say?” she asks, her feet breaking the surface as she floats on her back. “Wanna sip a little moonshine and watch the sunset?”

  
  


“That sounds nice,” I reply, my thumping heart stuck in my clenching throat, imagining how the shadows on her face will shift as the sun nears the jagged mountain tops and disappears completely. 

  
  


“Okay, it’s settled, then,” she grins. And in a single moment, she turns away and stands up, rivulets of water running in twisted paths down her arms and back, down her legs, and down all of the goosebumped skin in between. And for all of the cautionary measures I have taken to avoid this experience, I cannot remember a single one as she sways onto the shore, her backside open to my greedy gaze. I cannot remember anything from before because very suddenly my desire for her shifts from possible to tangible. I can no longer ignore the cosmic, magnetic pull of my body towards hers. It is not possible.

  
And as she leans over to collect her slightly less damp clothing, chilly pink skin shifting against muscle and curves, I pry away my eyes and close them tight. I let my knees collapse. I let myself sink down until every part of my body is covered in pin needle tingles and melted mountain water, tense lung air bubbling slowly from my nostrils.  _ You can do this _ , I tell myself.  _ You have made it this far already.  _ And I stay under until my lungs scream for air and my mind screams for mercy. I stay until I can't stay under for one second more.

 


	14. Quatorze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **hey, everyone.**
> 
>  
> 
> **I want to say thank you for the ridiculously amazing outpouring of love and support from all of you over the past week. I have received so many kind comments and messages on tumblr that I don't even know what to do with them all. My mood has been so down that I have found it difficult to respond to most of them, but please know that I got them and read them and they totally helped lift my spirit. I'm starting to feel better already. The camaraderie and support in this fandom is my favorite thing about it, and I feel very thoroughly held tight by you all.**
> 
>  
> 
> **So, thank you.**
> 
>  
> 
> **I will reply to everything soon, hopefully this weekend :)**
> 
>  
> 
> **But, for now, enjoy this chapter. Things are about to get serious.**

A purple grey sky and a settling chill in the marrow of our bones signals the start of dusk. The herd is in for the evening, penned up after a long day of grazing, their gentle bleats mingling with the rustling of long grass, the hum of cicadas, whispers of cool mountain wind. Cosima and I sit facing a gently flickering fire. It grows gradually, our source of outdoor heat and light and fully-cooked fish for the evening.

 

We sit side by side atop makeshift stump seats, our knees turned towards each other, nearly touching. Cosima's nose is slightly pink from the earlier blaze of the sun. She is wrapped in two layers of flannel and a thick jean jacket, her hair drawn back from her face. She pushes up her glasses then reaches over the crackling embers and turns the cleaned fish she caught and gutted earlier in the day. The meat browns faster in some places than others, sizzling as the fire licks at its sides.

 

I unscrew the threaded cap for the third time tonight, set my lips at the edge, and sip. The intense flavor has me gasping for air after the first swig, the heat of strong alcohol numbing my lips and tongue. I am not drinking it for flavor, though, so I bring the jar to my lips again. I wince. I swallow.

  
"Want some more?" I ask, tipping the jar in her direction. Already, I feel the effects taking place in my body—a pleasant numbness and muscle relaxation for perhaps the first time since we started up the trail that first time. Over the past month I have wound myself tighter and tighter, barely able to breathe. So, I happily sink deeper into my alcohol-induced state.

 

She nods and takes the jar from my grip. My hand finds a new resting place on the splintered wood beneath me, fingernails tracing rough patterns in the grain. She takes a small sip and squeezes her eyes shut at the taste. She coughs. "God, this tastes awful as hell. I don't know what Sarah and I were thinking back then.”

 

  
“ Rebellion tastes better than moonshine,” I reply, grinning, buzzed and flushed. I can feel the heat in my cheeks, my knees and hips loosening by the second.

 

  
Cosima laughs, tilts her head to look at me from the side of her glasses. "You know something? I think you're right, because this tastes like shit.” She hands the jar back and I take one last sip before I screw on the lid and set it on the ground beside us. “And something about drinking this is making me paranoid. I keep wanting to look over my shoulder and make sure Dad isn't going to catch us drinking his stash."

 

She giggles again, dips her head into her open hand, then right back up toward me, wobbling slightly. I laugh with her, lean into her when she playfully bumps our shoulders together. Her eyes glow a dark shade of amber, eye teeth peeking from the corners of her wide smile like the first time I saw her.

 

My breath catches. Lips numb, I run my tongue along the anesthetized skin.

 

“Well, I promise not to tell your secret. I am the only one here, and I am guilty as well.”

 

When she looks at me full on, her smile glowing up in the blue and purple light, I feel _it_ again—the incessant tug at the thumping muscle in my chest. Along with it follows the intense urge to bring my hand to her cheek—to feel, if only for a single moment, the sweet weight of her warm skin in my palm.

 

I lift my hand.

 

But instead of reaching toward her, I run my fingers up the side of my own cheek, through the waves of my own hair. My skin tingles, sensation simultaneously dulled and heightened.

 

I watch as she lifts a small bunch of ruby currants into her hand, picks one, and lets it disappear between her teeth. She had stopped briefly on the ride back home to collect a bag full of the tart, wild fruit that grows in abundance here. We have already worked our way through half of the inventory, its unique taste mingling pleasantly with the potent alcohol. The wettest parts of her lips are stained pink with currant juice.

 

“Thanks for keeping my secret,” she says, smiling, bringing another currant to her mouth. “But fair is fair, Delphine.”

 

“What do you mean?” I ask. My eyes shift in and out of hyper focus, the chapped creases in her lips the center of my drunken stare. A little voice inside reminds me that she is feeling the effects, too; her glassy eyes and rosy cheeks are not born from exhaustion and proximity to fire alone.

 

“Now you have to tell me a secret and I have to keep it forever.”

 

_Non. Non non non._

 

“I… I don’t have any secrets.”

 

“None?” she smiles and drops the empty currant stem to the ground. “Everyone has something they have to keep hidden away.”

 

I lean away from her. I drop my heavy head into my open hands and hold it there. I feel the pressure of her hand against my shoulder, her grip firm even through several layers of clothing. She squeezes the tensed muscle there and I recognize it as her way of asking me to look up at her again. I know she is nearer now, the warmth from her body so much closer, her knee turned in and touching mine, electricity passing back and forth through the barrier or our jeans. The warmth of her breath against my cheek tells me that she feels it, too.

 

I look up. I have to look up.

 

And when I do, she is close. _We_ are close—closer than we have ever been before.

 

“I think I know what you won’t say.” She wets her lips, her pink tongue swiping quickly against the dry skin there, forcing them to glisten in the firelight. “I think I know.”

 

Her eyes close. My pulse thumps. Her hand slips from my shoulder to my neck, the gentle pressure of her fingers leaving prints against my skin and guiding my mouth up to meet hers.

 

And the first time our lips meet, I feel her sweet warmth against my most vulnerable parts, tasting of currants and moonshine and campfire smoke. I feel her take one lip between her own and pull away to sigh into my mouth. I feel her kiss me again and again with some sort of previously unknown tenderness and I feel myself returning them all. She tastes tart and hot and I suck her tongue into my mouth for more. I feel her breath catch. I feel her teeth graze along my bottom lip, her nose bump against the side of mine; I feel myself drowning, drowning, drowning, a small, quiet voice inspiring me to lose myself in this completely.

 

For a moment, I believe I could do away with breathing all together.

 

For a moment, I forget about every promise I have ever made.

 

But, then, all at once, they flood my mind. And then, I feel my head jerk back and I feel her hand follow, each of us indirectly, painfully guiding the other away.

 

"Remember when I told you I’m bad with subtlety?" she laughs, offering a final press of her thumb against the ridges of my throat. Then, her hand drops from my neck and into her own lap.

 

My body is frozen, so disparate a state from the liquid limbs present only moments ago. Her kiss has changed my entire composition—turned what was once difficult to grip and contain into something solid. Something overwhelmingly heavy.

 

“Cosima…” I breathe, my eyes open wide and fixed on her still-closed lids. “Desolée, I am not…”

 

My breath flutters fast and shallow, barely reaching the top of my lungs. Body heavy, mind racing so quickly I can’t make out the thoughts as they bounce off of one another.

 

She blinks her eyes open. She leans away from me, her eyes suddenly wide and rimmed with what looks like fear, pain. Regret. “No, no, I _know_. I know you’re _not_ … Sorry, I just—I think I had too much to drink.”

 

She looks down at her hands and wrings them together.

 

_Danger, danger, danger!_

 

I stand up suddenly and my foot knocks a rock from the rim of the fire pit down into the center, collapsing the wire cooking rack into blazing orange and purple flames. The fish bubbles and is quickly engulfed, overtaken by an uncontrollable force. One it never asked for. Just this morning, that fish was swimming along, enjoy it’s life. Just this morning, it had not a care in the world.

 

“Je ne peux pas…” I admit, stumbling backwards towards the cabin, my body growing colder and colder as I distance myself from the warmth of the fire, from the warmth of the woman currently standing, currently holding out her arms toward me.

 

“Delphine, I’m sorry.”

 

“Non, non. Don’t worry,” I say, waving my hands in front my face. _Don’t worry,_ I repeat to myself, turning to walk up the steps and in the cabin and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

 

_Once, Delphine_ , I tell myself. _This happened once, but it_ cannot _happen again._

 

“Goddammit!” I hear her yell outside, her voice strong enough to carry through the single glass window pane. “Fuck!” I hear the water bucket tip to the side. I hear the fire sizzle out. Remorsefully, I think of the fish, likely drenched now in water and ashes.

 

Without an ounce of grace, I strip off the cold, already dusty clothes from the day. I divest myself of my many mistakes with each layer. The inaccuracies of my estimated willpower, the confusion of my attraction to her, the lapse in judgement that led to that one, brief glance up as she stood naked in the river and effectively solidified my desire. I shed them all and I leave them in a heap on the floor. And once I am finally naked, I pull a nightgown over my head and clean underwear up my legs. I climb into the bottom bunk and pull the blankets up over my head. I block out the noises of Cosima stomping in the house and kicking off her boots and closing her bedroom door. I try to forget that tomorrow we will wake, hungover and pretending we both drank enough to omit the event that neither of us ever truly could.

 

I breathe deeply through my nose and press my own lips together, treasuring the faint lingering taste of currants and of her mouth.

 

 


	15. Quinze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took 14 chapters of angst and denial, but now we're here.
> 
> thank you, lovely, kind, and supportive readers, for all of your kind comments. 
> 
> also, a few of you have expressed (joking) interest in a "tea/donut fund." what if this were a reality? thoughts? i'm on the fence, tbh...

Even when I close my eyes, the room is gently rocking back and forth. The bed, the floor. My head is spinning. The eye of the tornado—the only image I can bring into focus—is her face. I remember how she looked at me, fire reflected in her glasses, flames dancing in the lenses. Even in my intoxicated state I can see the perfect creases in her lips. I think I have memorized every one.

  
  


I sit up suddenly, mind following my body, limbs moving of their own volition. The room is still warped and slanted, and I move as though I am studying someone else—a body that is not mine.

  
  


I watch her—the body observed—stand up on wobbly legs, grasping carelessly at a door handle, missing once before catching it with a twist. I watch her stumble into the living room, run her hand over the top couch cushion, knock her knees into a solid coffee table. Pulled by an invisible string, she sways to Cosima's bedroom door, she wrings her own neck, wets her own lips. Her lips still taste of moonshine. I know because those lips are mine.

  
  


This woman I do not know is unpredictable and I am wary of trusting her. Especially when she has been drinking liquor out of a mason jar.

  
  


I feel the heavy pine door to Cosima's room under the pads of my fingers, coarse and cold. With only a push, it opens, and I watch myself watching her. One small lantern in the corner coats the room in warm golden hues. She is breathing heavily, no doubt impacted by the alcohol in her system, her head resting on top of folded, crossed arms. Her hair is sprawled across her shoulders, dark waves like silk, tempting the tips of my fingers.

  
  


The floor creaks when I take a step towards her. I curse the worn wooden planks, the old cabin loud only when silence is necessary.

  
  


I only wish to look at her. I only wonder what it would be like to—

  
  


"Delphine?"

  
  


My mouth feels heavy and numb, tongue too large for where it is set. I can feel my teeth digging into my lip, wringing it out until it's back at its natural resting place. Eyes foggy, I am only able to blink at her, watch her lift her head, eyes naked and squinted with sleep.

  
  


"Are you okay?" she mumbles, her voice groggy.

  
  


I shuffle to her bedside, equilibrium questionable, and drop my weight on the mattress. She sits up in a twist, grabbing my shoulders. She sways with me, clearly in a similar state.

  
  


“Why are you here?”

  
  


“Because I—” I pause. How does that thought end? Is this  _love_? Is this simply  _attraction_?  _Loneliness_? Self-control, though limited, is still present, and I can’t bring myself to continue the sentence. The consequences for such a rumination are too heavy, and I push it to the back of my mind. The place I’ve been keeping all of this hidden. Instead, I feel my hand rise to her cheek, thumb tracing the bottom of her lip. “I can’t stop thinking about that kiss,” I say. This confession feels easier, lighter in the moment.

  
  


“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

  
  


“Non, Cosima.” Her eyes are heavily lidded, fixed on my mouth. She watches my lips like I've found myself watching hers. Focused, dark. “You  _get_ me. I have never felt this way before.” My speech is slurred, my English simple. A more complex vocabulary eludes my drunken mind.

  
  


“How’s that?”

  
  


“Like  _myself_. Like I don’t need to be anything I am not.” My whole body leans towards her, like a sunflower pulled towards the sun at a molecular level. We are so close, our breath is mingling.

  
  


“Delphine. Don’t start this,” she whispers so faintly that nearly no sound leaves her at all. “If you do, I won’t be able to stop.” And I believe her because I saw the pain, the restraint in her eyes when we pushed each other away by the fire.

  
  


I hear her words and I catch them. I catch them and place them in a jar and bury them ten feet beneath the ground in a nondescript field in the middle of the Wyoming mountains. I put them in a place I could never find again if I tried. And then, I forget about them.

  
  


Because I  _have_ to start this.

  
  


Her hand is so warm against my shoulder. It’s not in my line of vision and I wonder if she’s touching me through my nightgown or on my bare skin.

  
  


I can’t pull my gaze away from her face, trailing between her unspectacled eyes and her pale lips. I watch my own finger, tracing the strong line of her mouth. Her lips pucker and press absentmindedly against my thumb. It happens so gently and so quickly that I almost miss it. But the action is tender, my head swimming, her thumb now caressing what is most definitely the bare skin of my collar bone. I cannot help myself from leaning forward again, from clumsily catching her mouth in a kiss.

  
  


Our lips crash and clink. It’s messy and too hard at first, the moonshine inhibiting my ability to monitor pressure and speed, but she’s returning it. I can feel her lips open, can taste the heat of alcohol and the sourness of her tongue when I push inside of her mouth and she meets me. Her hands tighten on my shoulders and she pulls me further in. Into her body, into her bed, into her warmth. Every movement is a blur, our touches heavy-handed and uncoordinated, our breaths heavy and lungs stuttering for oxygen.

  
  


She pulls away and turns over to yank the comforter down. It’s only for a moment, but she’s lifting up on her knees, pulling the blankets back for us, and my hands run up the backs of her thighs, over the curve that I now see is only covered in thin cotton underwear. I remember when we were by the river, how the skin here was raised with goosebumps, chilled by the water. At the memory, my head falls forward, lips pressing, mouth open to taste her thighs, the small of her back, and all the firm skin in between.

  
  


Then, I am over her, my head swirling. My body moves independently of my mind, but all of me is consumed by one desire: to touch her. To touch as much of her as I can.

  
  


Her hair has fallen forward onto the pillow and exposes the back of her neck, a perfect place to attach, to feel her pulse thump under my tongue. She tastes like warmth and sweat and earth. I feel her rock back into me, her hips under my hands as I push the fabric away with such fervor that threads pop at the seams.

  
  


“Delphine,” she breathes, craning her head back to look at me. Hearing my name on her mouth keeps me moving forward, has me pulling my nightgown up around my waist, has me tearing the cotton from my own hips and pressing forward into her firm skin.

  
  


All of this is new—this wanting, this urgency. I didn’t know it was possible to physically shake from desire, to feel that my body might begin to collapse in on itself were I unable to touch her.

  
  


Some stallion takes over inside of me. For what feels like hours we stay like that, my lips on her hot neck, tongue between her rippling shoulderblades. I can’t get enough of how she tastes, of the noises that come out of her while my hips slam into her backside, a previously unknown tightness coiling painfully in my groin. At some point, her hand reaches back to find mine, where my fingers dig into her hip. She laces them together and guides my hand across her stomach and between her thighs, and, for the first time, I feel her.

  
  


“Touch me,” she groans, her voice so low. My fingers slip easily through her heat as she guides my movements with her hand. I learn what she wants by the catches in her breath.

  
  


It’s so strange to touch another in this way, the anatomy so familiar and foreign at the same time. She sighs and her arms shake when I press my hand harder against her.

  
  


Then, she pulls away, flipping herself over in one quick, easy movement, kicking the cotton from her legs once she is on her back. Her hands are on me, pulling the nightgown over my head, ripping hard when it catches under my chin. Our hands work frantically together to pull off her shirt, my panties, until I fall forward onto her soft bodily embrace. An unmonitored groan falls from my mouth at the feel of her, breasts pressed against my own and her thigh caught between my legs, pressing into me with the upward force of her hips.

  
  


Her arms around my shoulders, her hands at the back of my neck, pulling me forward into the fiercest kiss I've ever known, one that makes me tremble and quake with its intensity. These are not the clumsy, harsh kisses we shared before—before we stripped each other bare and surrendered to the inevitability of our friction. These are slow and deep, her mouth open and her tongue grazing the backs of my teeth. This kiss is so honest, so gentle, that my heart throbs in time with every stroke of our lips. The very center of my soul aches for  _more_ of her.

  
  


For  _all_ of her.

  
  


The heat of her mouth is enough to melt me further, enough to distract me when one hand slips from my neck and down to my breasts. Sensitive skin buzzes beneath her touch, her palm kneading and cupping me gently. The sensation is unlike anything I've felt before, achy jolts of... _pain_? Has she made every nerve ending so completely on edge? She hears my hiss, the catch of my breath at the pressure of her palm, and mumbles an apology before trailing her fingers between our rolling hips.

  
  


As soon as she touches me, my head is suddenly sober and my senses sharp. A jolt of electricity shoots from her fingers to my navel, her hand stroking gently, and she sighs into our kiss. A sound of pure satisfaction.

  
  


Cosima stops and pulls back with a smile. She watches me intently, her eyes studying my face, the blonde curls that have fallen forward and are grazing the sides of her cheeks, swinging with the rock of my hips into her open hand. Her dark eyes travel over my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, my lips. She studies me, her gaze a gentle caress of my every feature.

  
  


So, I soak her in as well, gentle moans and breath mingling between our faces, our hips still strumming together. Her long, dark eyelashes bat in the yellow light, her eyebrows draw up in a question. Flecks of green and yellow flash at me in her copper eyes. I admire the curve of her nose and flush of her rounded cheeks—her lips, thoroughly rosy and swollen from our kisses.

  
  


“T’es belle,” I choke, because I need her to know.

  
  


I don’t say the rest. I don’t say that my chest is aching, that my every cell is throbbing for her and on the verge of explosion. That from the moment I met her, some part of me knew that this was inevitable.

  
  


She smiles at my admission, and the hand stroking me stills. I feel her tease me once, then slip inside, her mouth open in anticipation of my reaction, a sharp inhale.

  
  


My neck snaps back at the feel of her, fingers tenderly filling me and retreating slowly, over and over, sending shoots of shivering pleasure from the soles of my feet to the backs of my ears. I prop myself up on my arms, hips riding her hand. She twists and strokes her fingers harder.

  
  


"Look at me," she asks, so I bring my eyes back to settle on hers, completely magnetic. Like always. "Are you here with me?"

  
  


_A part of me has always been here,_ I think.  _Waiting for this. Waiting for you._ But I don't say that. I don't say any of that because the heel of her palm has joined in with her tender fingers and I couldn't speak now if my life depended on it. So I nod and gasp and moan my agreement.

  
  


She smiles at my response. "Good," she whispers, keeping our hooded eyes locked, and bumps her nose against mine in a simple display of affection that has my heart clenching painfully behind my ribs.

  
  


Her touch is electric. Previous tight pain has been replaced with flecks of pleasure, the impending wave that will soon overtake me. I can feel her against me, her heat on my thigh pressing in quick thrusts with the strength of her hips. Her breath comes in short bursts, and the sounds coming out of her seem to go in through my ear and straight to the fire inside, the one that grows with each stroke of her fingers and brush of her palm.

  
  


I need her to feel this. I need her to burn with me.

  
  


When my fingers find her wetness, our lips meet again. My eyes close at the feel of her tongue in my mouth, her muscles trembling around my clumsily thrusting hand, the beginning of my own fall into the abyss that is Cosima. Our mouths muffle each other's small screams, the noises that come with this, with us. Our bodies enacting the desires of our hearts.

  
  


She breaks away first and I immediately miss her lips. But I watch her, head thrown back, eyes closed tight and a long groan falling from her parted lips. She tightens and pulses around my fingers. Her pleasure sets off my own until I am yelling, the only response I can muster with the orgasm rocketing straight up my spine, wrapping around my heart.

  
  


In that moment, every cell in my body comes undone and rearranges, all the same pieces transformed into something new, something unrecognizable. At the height of it all, I find her eyes and drown myself in them, submerged in a deep copper ocean.

  
  


She holds me after I fall into her chest, my cheek on her sweaty collar bone. Her fingers have slipped out of me gently and are tracing damp patterns down the length of my back. Our breath is still harsh, chests bouncing as we pant in our exhaustion and regain our senses. One hand cups the back of my neck, her thumb brushing against my ear, asking silently for me to lift my head and meet her eyes.

  
  


The moment I do, I wish I hadn't.

  
  


Because when I see her there, her smiling, flushed, glowing face looking back at me with all the satisfaction in the world, I can't stop the swell at the back of my throat, the tightening that comes just before the first sob. Her face blurs when my eyes involuntarily water, but I can see her features fall.

  
  


"Hey, hey. You okay?" Cosima asks. Her hand finds mine, laces our fingers together. Her warm thumb glides across my knuckles.

  
  


“Yes.”

  
  


“You sure?” She rolls us to the side, her hand never leaving its grasp on mine. The other warm palm is at my cheek, pushing away the gathering tears.

  
  


“Yes. I—I cry after sex sometimes.”

  
  


I've never cried like this, though. I lie to her because it's easier right now. It's easier than explaining how I feel. I can't describe it. I am made new.

  
  


“Happy tears or sad tears?” she asks, her eyebrows drawn up, illustrating every bit of the fear and uncertainty I can see quickly growing behind her fading smile. I can't stand it.

  
  


“These ones are happy. I am  _so_ —”

  
  


Cosima watches me as I search for the right words, for the description that eludes me.

  
  


“What?” she smiles. “Say whatever's on your mind.”

  
  


“I feel new. Like you’ve changed me and now I will never be the same.”

  
  


“I didn’t think I was  _that_ good in bed…” she smiles, teasing me with her warm eyes and warm hands and warm soul. I laugh, though I'm crying. I am a naked, sobbing, laughing mess and she is peppering kisses across my cheeks, my forehead. "I've wanted this for so long," she mumbles, her lips drawing nearer to my own.

 

  
"Embrasse moi," I whisper, and she does. She pulls me into her and kisses me until our still slightly intoxicated exhaustion overcomes us.

  
  
  



	16. Seize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! You all are the best readers/supporters around. Let me reward you by dragging you through a shitton of angst...
> 
> Also, after much encouragement from a few friends, I have whipped together a little patreon account I believe it has anonymous capabilities). If you are feeling so inclined to tip me, you can do so here: 
> 
> www.patreon.com/tumblweed
> 
> Regardless, updates will continue every Friday and I will keep doing my best to write the hell outta this story ;)

 

 

My head starts throbbing the second I open my eyes. Logically, I know that hangover symptoms were present long before waking, but I can't help but blame my recent consciousness for the pain.

  


I sit up and pull back the covers. A cool gust of wind reminds me that I'm naked, and a quick look around the unfamiliar room reminds me that I am not in my own bed. Cosima is gone and the sheets that weren't beneath me have grown cold in her absence. But my body still burns and aches in all the places she touched me, my neck tender where her teeth and tongue found a home, if only for last night.

  


I rub at my eyelids with the heel of my palm, then squint into the brightness, wincing at the assault on my pupils. The sun pours in the windows like it's midday. Why is it so bright? Have I overslept again? I’ve always been one to rise before the sun, but lately I have been sleeping longer and harder than usual. So hard, in fact, that Cosima was able to roll out of bed and slip from the room without waking me.

  


A vision of her flashes through my mind: long, dark hair spread across her crumpled pillow, her face bare of glasses and tipped back, eyes closed and lips parted. I can still hear her phantom moans, the tiny catches in her breath. _Delphine, oh God, Delphine,_ I hear, her imagined voice rising in intensity, uncertain if what I’m hearing is memory or fantasy. I squeeze my thighs together at the thought, an electric jolt.

  


And then, Christophe. His kind eyes and gentle hands. His freckled childhood face staring right into mine. _My wife_ , I hear him say, voice deep and torn. _I trusted you._

  


The crash of these two worlds, two lives, two women that I have become shakes me to my very core. I feel nearly crushed between them, bones cracking, lungs too restricted to take in air.

  


A single, horrible sob rises up and cannons from my mouth. I cover my lips to keep the rest in, sucking in air from the tight spaces between my fingers.

  


_What have I done?_

  


I had been drunk, yes. The headache I'm enduring now is proof of my previous state. But no matter the excuse, the guilt flies in solid and rams me in the gut again and again.

  


I lurch forward, stomach clenching suddenly. My mouth is watering, saliva pooling under my tongue in a wave of nausea. Something is making me ill, be it guilt or after-effects of moonshine. Likely a combination of the two.

  


The only article of clothing I can find is Cosima’s discarded nightgown, hanging from the foot of the bed. I remember sliding it up her body and over her head, goosebumps on her skin rising in the wake of my touch. I remember wanting nothing more than to see what world existed beneath this piece of thin blue fabric. I remember tossing it to the side just before our bodies met, warm from moonshine and arousal.

  


But now, I need it in the opposite way. Over my head it slips, hiding last night's nakedness from new day's light.

  


My muscles jump again.

  


Stomach acid burns up my esophagus.

  


My legs carry me out the front door barefoot and I bang my knees on the ground in my hurry to retch into the grass. Two heaves and my body seizes, knuckles white with their grip on the earth, until yellow bile comes up and out, stinging my throat and nose. My eyes water from the pain, the misery that comes along with vomiting. It's so different from the misery of betraying one's spouse, but I've got that, too.

  


_I hate this. I hate it,_ I think, hot tears running down my cheeks and collecting at my jawline.

  


But I've got no one to blame but my reckless self.

  


Again and again my body clenches and retches, pathetically and painfully losing all the contents of my stomach on the undeserving grass. Eventually, there is nothing left, and my body dry-heaves uselessly until, finally, it settles. Using the back of my hand, I wipe at my eyes and cheeks and mouth until they are barely damp.

  


My mind is bombarded with images of Christophe on the front porch swing; Christophe pulling me close at the end of our first date, his head tilted and eyes shut just before our first kiss; Christophe in his suit and tie, pacing nervously in front of the courthouse. I remember how handsome he looked that day. His familiar smile alone was enough to drag me out, if only briefly, from the residual despair of Maman’s funeral days before.

  


_I, Delphine, take you, Christophe, to be my husband,_

  


I can’t lose the horrid taste from my mouth no matter how many times I spit and spit and spit it out. Before I know it, I am crying pitifully, worthlessly in the middle of a foreign country’s mountain range over a man I have loved since childhood and a woman who has redefined my understanding of love altogether.

  


I stand up slowly, muscles trembling, my body worn out from expelling all of its contents. Every part of me aches. I feel it fully now that that the nausea is behind me. Soreness in my hips and legs, soreness in my chest. I daydream of a hot bath on my walk back up the steps. I daydream of sinking down into it and allowing the warmth to heal every strained muscle and tendon, knowing all along, of course, that it is an impossible aspiration.

  


Impossible, like all of this.

  


_To honor you, to treasure you, to be loyal to you,_

  


I find my way inside, stuck in some sort of daze. I run the faucet, cup water in my hand, then bring it to my mouth again and again, rinsing away the foul taste. Sip, swish, spit. Sip, swish, spit.

  


Straight ahead of me—out the window and across the lawn—I see her. She paces, rocking gently back and forth, her hips jutting first to one side and then the other. She kicks the toe of her boot down into the earth, her head bowed forward. Somehow, it seems wrong that she looks just the same as she has every other morning: jeans and jacket and wide, brown hat. Little clouds of warm breath puff from her mouth and condense as they meet chilly morning air.

  


Somehow I expected her to look just as different as I _feel_ —for her appearance to reflect the changes born from our night together.

  


_To love and cherish you always,_

  


Christophe.

  


Every time I blink, I see him there. He is standing across from me, holding both of my hands gently in his larger ones, his wavy hair combed neatly to the side, tie tucked under his white collar. A white flower is pinned to his woolen lapel. He looks so happy in my memory. So content.

  


But weeks have passed since then. And right at this moment, he is probably on his way to work in our old, noisy truck, the spot next to him distinctly empty. He is probably going through the motions of his day, pushing on to the other side of this summer when I will return and our life together can truly begin. He is probably daydreaming of me coming home, rested and healthy and healed from the many losses and injuries I have endured over the past year. He is, right at this moment, blissfully unaware of my actions and their resounding shame.

  


Right now, Christophe lives in a world where Cosima and I are friends, at best. A world where I have never kissed her, never desired her, never felt her fingers run through my hair as she lulled me to sleep on her naked chest. There is a world, hours into the lowlands, where he waits patiently for me to return. A world where he expects me to be the same Delphine he has always known.  
  
And I am terrified that last night has made that an impossible task.

  


_In the good times, and in the bad,_

  


Through the chaos, one specific memory tugs and tugs at the back of my mind: Three days before I left him for the highlands, Christophe and I lay holding one another as darkness settled outside. The two of us post coitial in bed, my body curled up against his side, his arm draped protectively over my shoulder. His naked chest rose in a steady rhythm, my hand tracing simple circles over the small patch of hair there.

  


“Are you happy?” he asked me in our mother tongue, eyes focused on the bedroom ceiling.

  


“What do you mean?”

  


“Here, with me. In this town, in this house. Are you happy?” He paused then, cleared his throat.

  


“I don’t know,” I replied, allowing my eyes to close, knowing he would see through any lie I could possibly tell. He always appreciated my honesty. “I think happiness feels different from how it used to.”

  


“Sometimes I worry you feel it was a mistake to come here. Or that we got married too quickly.”

  


His words stuck solid in my mind. _Mistake_ felt too strong a word. More accurately, I felt I didn’t belong in Buffalo. I didn’t belong in La Tuque, either. I didn’t belong.

  


“Non, I am glad I came with you. There was no place for me at home.”

  


“Hmm,” he hummed, his deep voice rattling against my ear. I could tell he wasn’t pleased with my answer. “Do you think it will ever come back? Your happiness?”

  


“Maybe.”

  


He took my hand then, squeezed my fingers together, kissed the tips.

  


“You will find a place here, I promise. You will make one.”

  


“What if I don’t?” I asked, finally voicing the question that had been taunting me since the funeral: _Will I ever belong again? Now that my keeper has died?_

  


“You will. And when you do…” He tipped my face up toward his and met me with a kiss. “You will be unstoppable.”

  


Being with Christophe is like sitting on a heavy rock—a rock that has always been there and is rooted firmly in the earth. Stable, immovable. I know what to expect; I know he can support my weight.

  


But when I am with Cosima, I am thrashing about, caught in a small boat on a raging sea. Unpredictable, untethered. In every moment, I hang on for dear life. In every moment, I risk being swept away and turned over and happily drowned.

  


And behind it all—the heaviness of guilt, the unbearable darkness of my betrayal—a small flame flickers: a fire inside that burns for her alone. It was lit last night, the first moment our lips met and she sighed into me. Even under all of this muck, I can feel its warmth.

  


And I cannot bring myself to extinguish it.

  


Not yet.

  


_To have and to hold in sickness and in health,_

  


I slip on my boots, the insides cold and uncomfortable without socks, but still better than bare feet on damp grass. I push open the screen door and stomp down the steps, aching muscles protesting the haste that this urgency demands. My skin tightens beneath her nightgown, goosebumps rising as crisp air rushes past me.  
  
I don't know what words I can say fix this. I have no plan for what might start to make this right. But somehow I know, _I just know_ , that once she is next to me, my mind will quiet down and the words will come. I will figure out how to balance my scale, how to manage these opposing halves.

I am unstoppable.

  
"Cosima!" I call to her, and she stands up straight, her body suddenly rigid at the presence of my voice.

  


_Until death do us part._

  


"Think it's a sign?" she asks her voice carrying the distance still between us. She twists her torso towards me, one hand resting on the brim of her hat, the other at her hip. Her eyes look worn and weary, so opposite from way they sparkled last night, her legs wrapped around me, her lips pink and smiling from our kisses.

  


"What? _What_ is a sign?"

  


As I come up next to her she steps to the side, dragging her boot through the grass, tearing a patch up by the roots.

  


Two meters in front of us, a sheep lays on its back, curly white hair caked and matted with red and black blood. It is torn open at the center, flies buzzing around its hollowed body—around what is left over from the midnight feast of Mountain Devils.


	17. Dix-Sept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **oh muh gawd. i cannot believe the level of support i've gotten from you lovely readers since posting the tip jar url. thank you thank you THANK YOU!! wow. i'm at a loss for words (of appreciation, not story words. don't worry). seriously, i am feeling especially thankful for you all this thanksgiving weekend. i will be in touch with those of you whom i owe special sneak peeks and such very very soon :)**
> 
> **in other news, expect a mini chapter posted this coming wednesday. it wasn't enough material to make it into a friday chapter, so it's gonna be a double update week!!**
> 
> **okay, okay. good luck with this chapter, everyone.**

Frozen.

 

I stand here, frozen in place. Cosima is next to me, her body obviously bent away from mine, our eyes fixated on the carcass of the gentle being we were both assigned to protect. A shiver runs up my whole body, partially from the cold air, partially from the gore assaulting my eyes.

 

“We made a mistake,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. I turn my head to look at her. My throat tightens.

 

“Non,” I start, knowing that defending this is a lie in and of itself. The proof is spread out in front of us, bloody and still. Lifeless.

 

“A _huge_ mistake, Delphine.”

 

She tips her head down, lifts her hand to massage the space between her eyes, fingers slipping beneath her glasses. She doesn’t look at me, but I know she can feel my stare. I can’t pull my eyes away from her. I can’t look away from the pain in her expression, and I can’t shake the knowledge that I am the one who put it there.

 

She pulls thick leather gloves out of her pocket and tugs them onto her hands, stretching out her fingers to fit them into place. The whole carcass jerks forward when she takes it by the hind legs and begins to drag it across the lawn.

 

“Where are you taking it?” I ask, trailing behind her, my arms crossed against my chest to keep out the cold.

 

“Behind the barn. I need to bury it with the coyote. Soil’s already turned up in that spot.”

 

“I can help!” I say.

 

“Just go inside, Delphine. You must be freezing. I’ll take care of this.” There is a bite to her voice that I have only heard once before, that day that her drawings were ruined and she questioned the validity of my marriage. Though her words are different, her tone hurts the same.

 

“I am not cold.” _Liar!_ my mind screams as my body trails behind her, shivering and purposefully forcing my gaze away from the sheep. _When did I become such a liar?_

 

“Do what you want,” she replies dismissively. The sting of her words lingers between us as I follow her across the lawn, my feet slipping around inside cold boots. With every step, I feel on the verge of stumbling over my own feet. I trail after her like a child pleading incessantly for attention.

 

“Cosima, please,” I beg. But she doesn’t turn. Her pace is certain and strong, body leaned forward from the weight of the body she drags behind her.

 

To my left, the hammock sways stiffly in the slight breeze and I think back to our first day here, watching her gallop and weave through the yard in a sleepy haze, the image permanently ingrained in my memory. Ahead of us, the barn awaits our arrival, surrounded by innocently grazing sheep and horses and two bossy dogs walking the perimeter. The herd peacefully munches away at their breakfast, so unaffected by the brutal death of one of their own that took place just hours ago. So blissfully unaware.

 

When we reach the backside of the barn, I see the upturned patch of soil there from where she’d buried the coyote weeks ago. A few patches of green stick up randomly, but the outline of the grave is still stark against the surrounding grass. The shovel she’d used that day is still propped up against the side of the barn, so she takes it by the handle and digs the pointed tip into the earth, stomping it with her heel until it is completely buried. She scoops cold earth up and drops it to the side. Only the scrape of the metal against grit fills the air between us.

 

I watch as she repeats the movement over and over, her breath quickening in exertion and puffing out in little white clouds. She sniffles a bit, nose pink and running from the chilly air.

 

She wants me to leave. I can feel it.

 

But, I have walked away from her before and I won’t make that mistake again.

 

So I stand and I watch her, my skin dotted with goosebumps, my teeth chattering together, my muscles tense and shivering. I wait. I watch her dig, scoop after scoop. I watch her until the soil is piled up and the coyote’s body becomes visible. The sight is enough to make my stomach lurch again, but I swallow it back down.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” she says, finally breaking the silence, twisting her head away from the maggot-infested grave. Without looking at me, she grips the hind legs of the sheep again and drags it until it falls inelegantly into the joint grave.

 

“I know you’re cold,” she mumbles, pushing the legs in with the tip of her boot. She pulls off her gloves and unbuttons her jacket with naked hands, her eyes still refusing to meet mine. “I’m too warm. Take this,” she says, slipping the fabric off of her shoulders and offering it in my direction. I am unsure if this is a white flag or merely a matter of convenience.

 

At least she is talking to me again.

 

“Merci.” I take it from her hand and slip it on, the warmth from her body still stuck in the fabric fibers and seeping into my frigid skin, my frigid bones. I lean back against the barn, careful not to push her, but unwilling to leave.

 

Then she takes the shovel again and spills dirt back into the grave. Quickly, the white and red of the sheep becomes concealed in dark brown until it has disappeared completely. Until it’s as if it never existed at all. She lets out a lungful of tense air as she surveys her work. Forehead resting on the back of her hand, her weight leaned against the butt of the shovel, she twists towards me. She wets her lips and lets out a sigh.

 

“I never should have kissed you. I just… _fucked it all up_. We were finally getting along again, becoming friends and I—” She squeezes her eyelids shut behind her lenses as her mouth draws into a frown. Just for a moment, I see a quiver travel through her bottom lip to her chin. The slight of it has mine twisting sympathetically in a similar shape. “ _Goddammit_ ,” she says quietly to herself and stands straight to turn away from me.

 

“Cosima, _I_ kissed you. _I_ came into _your_ room,” I reason. She _has_ to know that I wanted this, too.

 

She sighs and shakes her head, then pulls off her hat and hangs it at her side. Behind her, the edge of the forest is illuminated with late morning sunshine. The frost on the grass around us melts away in all the places it is touched by the sun.

 

“ _I can’t_ have this conversation right now, Delphine.”

 

“Too late. It’s already happening,” I tell her, feeling particularly bold. Particularly powerful. Particularly magnetic. I take a step towards her and she doesn’t move. “Please, just talk to me, Cosima. What if last night was not a mistake at all? What if it was simply a matter of time?” Another step and another, until I am next to her, my arm reaching out and finding a resting place against her shoulder. She lets it sit for a moment before shrugging me off and turning to face me.

 

“How could this _not_ be a massive mistake?” she nearly shrieks, dropping the shovel as she steps back and away from me. “Shit, I can't believe I'm the _other_ _woman_. I can't believe I'm part of this cuckolding. A _fling_ …With a married woman! This is enough to get me killed back home!”

 

“It's not a _fling_!” The corrective words fly from my mouth, and I realize how true it is as I say it. Nothing about this feels nonchalant. And the margin between choice and predestination is barely large enough to notice.

 

But her other words linger, too; we both know she is right. If this became public, we would be ostracized at best. Likely much worse.

 

“The only mistake is concerning my other obligations. And that mistake is mine to make.”

 

“Obligations? You mean your _marriage_?” she scoffs, and it cuts me to the bone. I worry that I am blinded by my desire to be close again, to hold her again, to kiss her again. I worry that I would say just about anything to get back there. I know my judgement is clouded, but the larger part of myself can not muster the energy to care. Her body is stiff, though, her arms crossed in front of her chest and I know it won’t be easy. “And what about what _I_ want?” she asks. “I have a say in this, too.”  

 

I decide to take a chance. Because, _why not?_ I am already here, already bare. Already a fool in front of her.

 

“I know how you feel because _I feel it, too_. I have never felt like this before; Please believe me. Nothing has ever felt so—”

 

“ _What?_ ” she asks, her jaw clenched. “What _is_ this to you?”

 

I cannot handle the doubt in her expression. And I cannot find the words to explain myself. Instead of coming easily, they tornado against the inside of my skull and dizzy my clarity. I chase after so many different lines of thought that my head feels faint within seconds and, instead of speaking, I reach the distance between us and quiet the chaos the only way I know how.

 

Her lips are cold against mine when we crash together. My hands grip at the back of her neck, desperate to keep her close. Desperate for her to kiss me back. And she does, fiercely. The wet sounds of our mouths moving together fills my head and displaces the previous storm. I can feel nothing but her warm skin beneath my palms, her chapped lip caught between my teeth, her tight grip on my waist. I am careful not to let her deepen it, though, when the memory of my previous sickness crosses my mind. I pull away suddenly and rest my forehead against hers, her breath harsh against my cheek, both of us gasping for air.

 

“What about Christophe?” she asks, her voice low and eyes closed.

 

Even with the moonshine out of my system, my head chemically sober, I am completely intoxicated by her presence. Her existence alone is enough to cloud my judgment and lower my inhibitions. And just like last night, my hands feel too heavy, the wrong words come out too easily. I could feel the subtle splintering of the dam the first time she kissed me, water seeping through my cracks, weakening the once immovable structure. As soon as I felt her naked beneath me, my name on her breath, was the moment it all collapsed. And now I’m spinning, spinning, spinning.

 

“What if _this_ is what’s right? What if I had it wrong before?”

 

There is nothing to grab hold of, except for her. So, I pull her even closer, our hips touching. Her eyes flutter open and meet mine from behind dusty lenses.

 

“Don’t play with me, Delphine. Don’t say things things like that unless you mean it.”

 

“It is different with him. I love him, yes. I have known him my whole life and I—I _care_ for him. But I wasn't looking for this, I wasn’t looking for you. You just came along and now you’re here and I never dreamed it was possible to feel this way. Especially not towards—”

 

“Towards a woman,” she finishes for me, her mouth crooked to the side.

 

I stop, unsure of what prompted me to say this. I _know_ she’s a woman, of course. I _know_ this about her. And, somehow, her gender feels secondary in my magnetic pull toward her. I desire her body because it is a part of who she is, not because hers is a woman’s body. I want _all_ _of her_. Every part.

 

And I have to tell her. I have pushed it aside for long enough, even from myself.

 

“For so long, I felt like nothing in this world belonged to me. Nothing was there because I wanted it—everything _just was_. And with this—with you—it’s my choice to—” _Not love. Do not say love_. “— _be_ with you. For maybe the first time _ever_ I am not doing something because it is expected of me or because there is no other option. You are the difficult choice, and I choose you.”

 

My words did come out as eloquently as I’d hoped, but there they are, filling the space between us. And they cannot be taken back.

 

I take a deep breath. I wait for her response.

 

“Well, what about how I feel? If I even want this?” she asks, and I swallow the lump in my throat.

 

She does. She does. _She has to._

 

“Do you?”

 

“I don't know. I've been with—I was with a woman before. But then, I think you already knew that.” She tugs at her lip with her teeth, and it’s like looking in a mirror. “I know how these things go.”

 

_What happens at the end of the summer?_ I wonder, and watch the same worry scroll across her features, eyebrows drawn up, lower lip trembling. I have no answer and I know in my gut that she doesn’t either.

 

“I want this,” I say, finally clear. Finally honest. Finally courageous. “I want you.”

 

“Delphine,” she sighs, closing her eyes as a great gust of wind blows around us. The hem of her nightgown taps against the top of my thighs, barely concealing my skin from the cold. It whips at the small hairs in front of her ears and tickles them against her cheek. She presses her lips together like she’s holding something in. I am frightened of the words she won’t say. I know they will be impossible to deny. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she says finally, looking down at the place where her hand rests against my hip, her thumb drawing small circles over blue cotton. “But I also can’t go the rest of the summer pretending this never happened. I can’t go back to how it was before.”

 

“Me neither,” I say. And I know those are the most honest words I have said all day. We can’t go back and uncertainty is unsustainable. There is no place to go but forward.

 

“Okay,” she says simply, a small grin forming on her mouth, tears welling at the corners of her eyes. It feels so easy, but maybe easy is what we need. Maybe we deserve easy—if only for a moment.

 

She tugs at the front of the nightgown and I lean even closer, her strong hands gripping at my waist. I take her face between my palms, heart fluttering as we bring our faces close together. Her warmth draws me in, my entire body shivering from the lingering morning chill, one that will burn off within a few hours. She is so small. I notice how her cheeks fit perfectly in my hands. I notice how her lips are just a head tilt away, how I must bend down to meet her. She brushes against me and I close my eyes to feel her smile.

 

“Wait,” I say, remembering the reason I’d pulled away before.

 

“What? Did I…?” she asks, eyes blinking open wide, so quickly lined with fear that I immediately attempt to soothe.

 

“Non, non, I…” I turn my head away, mimicking once the movement of throwing up.

 

“Oh, yeah, I saw that,” she laughs, her eyebrows drawn up in pity. She rubs her hands down the top of my arms, attempting to warm me. “You feeling okay?”

 

“Much better now. Hungover, or perhaps I'm getting sick.” I leave out the guilt, the true cause of my illness. I leave it out because I have finally told her my truth and any reminder of my questionable morality might undo the work we have already done. I have spoken how I feel and not one part of me wishes to take it back. “I want to kiss you, I just need to brush my teeth first.”

 

She laughs, says “okay, okay,” and pulls me back down to her, runs her nose up the side of mine. That small display of affection that has me swimming again, grinning stupidly as she pulls away and takes my hand and leads me toward the cabin.

 

Already I am anticipating the catastrophe that awaits us at the end of the summer. I know it will come sooner than I wish. But I push that nagging reminder to the back of my mind, I look deliberately away from its glaring warning sign, and instead press a kiss to her cheek, to her neck, to the space below her ear as we walk.

 

“Mmm,” she hums, and nuzzles her cheek against mine, her pink fingers gripping tight against my own. “Let's go get you in some warmer clothes. We’re heading east today.”

 

“East?” I ask as my heart slams against my ribs.

 

“Yeah, I know a place. Gorgeous view and lots of tasty grass.” She opens the door and we both slip inside. My arm hooks around her waist and pulls her flush to my side.

 

“The view cannot possibly be more beautiful than you,” I tell her in French, my lips right against her ear, attempting to hide the blush creeping up my neck at such forward words spoken in my mother tongue.

 

“What’s that?” she laughs giddily and it is the most captivating sound I have ever heard. “Get dressed,” she orders and nudges me toward my bedroom door.

 

“Okay,” I smile, and watch her walk down the hallway into her own bedroom before finding my dresser, slipping on jeans and a halter top and a coat and Sarah’s hat, hands shaky with excitement. And when I walk back into the living room, I see through the window that she is already back at the barn, tacking up both horses for our journey, an extra blanket draped over Twist’s saddle.

 

At the edge of the kitchen sink sits my toothbrush, set there by Cosima, a dollop of toothpaste balanced atop white bristles. I let out a long breath and a chestful of air as I wet it under cold well water. The toothpaste tastes strongly of mint as I scrub away the taste at the back of my tongue, and, with it, all of the guilt and doubt and fear that put it there.

 


	18. Dix-Huit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I'm soooorrrrryyyyyy. 
> 
> I totally wanted to post this yesterday but, alas, life even forbade me from working on this as much as I would have liked. So, here it is, fulfilling my double-post week promise. Expect the next chapter tomorrow. Horray!!
> 
> Second of all: You're all the best readers a fic writer could ask for. Let me know what you think ;)

 

I dip the washcloth in the water and wring it out again. My hands have acclimated to the temperature of the steaming liquid that once burnt at my fingers and now they are bright red as they bring the damp cloth to my face, wiping away the fine layer of dust and sweat. I rinse it again and clean my neck, my chin, behind my ears—everywhere that the grit has settled from our long day in the eastern Wyoming highlands. The trip back was difficult—the terrain rougher than Cosima had anticipated. At separate points, we were both out of our saddles, slinging lambs across our shoulders to carry them safely to the other side of a quickly-moving river while the rest of the herd hurried around us. I feared more than once that we would lose track of a few sheep, but the dogs stayed on task and we were able to make it back, though much later than anticipated. Guiding a hundred sheep through rocks and roots and rivers at dusk and after sunset is a dangerous task, one made smoother by our guide.

  


Cosima.

  


Despite our stressful journey, the whole day seemed to consist of stolen touches and timid kisses that quickly turned bold, intermingled with conversations that flowed like a river when our lips were not otherwise occupied. We talked about our families, about our favorite novels, the music we enjoy. I recited to her my favorite poem en français, and she listened intently, her eyes fixed on my mouth, though I knew she did not understand. There were tears in her eyes when I finished. Then she took my hands in hers and brought my knuckles to her lips and kissed each one individually and I wondered if she understood more than I thought she could.

  


She told me about her mother: How strong she was, how she taught Cosima everything she knew about the farm. How her light burned so bright and faded too quickly.

  


She asked me what it was like to watch my mother die. And the way she asked felt unlike all the people who have asked before—the neighbors and childhood friends who made a spectacle out of my tragedy.  The way she asked me felt like a preparation, advice for what to expect at the end of the journey she was already on.

  


We talked _around_ our agreement to pursue one another—never quite able to discuss the events of our morning together or the drunken evening that birthed it. I found myself omitting Christophe’s presence in stories about my childhood and the guilt hit me again in a new way. She looked away when my sentences stuttered, when the story lost steam with his vital role in it removed.

  


And I watched her swallow loudy. I felt her grip loosen. I knew she could tell. I knew it.

  


And despite those random moments where a wave of sadness hit us both at the same time, most of the day she had me roaring with laughter and pulling her in for a playful kiss that always seemed to leave my stomach in knots. Over the span of only ten hours, we created a world in which only we exist.

  


Now, here, back at the cabin, a warm washcloth scrubbing my underarms, I feel caught up in her still. I hear her in the living room, piling another log onto the fire and shutting the squeaky hinge of the cast iron stove. I hear her clinking pots and pans, humming to herself in the same tune she always sings. It’s light and happy. Comforting.

  


When I am done washing, I slip on my nightgown and pull clean underwear up my legs, tie my hair back with a band. She looks up as I leave my bedroom, still clad in her workwear and a gentle smile, hauling a small bucket of warm water off the top of the stove for her own bath.

  


“Hey,” she says, the fire crackling behind her.

  


“All clean,” I say, shuffling toward the kitchen to dump my lukewarm grey water down the sink.

  


“Good. I’m just going to wash up.”

  


She plants a small kiss on my shoulder as our paths cross and I feel her pressure through my nightgown, shivering as I remember the warmth of her hand on my shoulder last night and all of the things that happened after that first touch. I watch the water and mountain dust funnel down the drain as she disappears into her bedroom. Then I am left alone in the living space for the first time since this morning, since I stood, brushing my teeth.

  


This routine of getting ready for bed—one that we’ve perfected over the past weeks—is suddenly interrupted by one very persistent thought: _Where do I sleep?_

  


Last night, I finally fell asleep in her bed, naked and head swimming in a pleasantly sated state. Every _sober_ night before, I’d tucked myself into the too-small bottom bunk, eyes fixated on the single window and twinkling sky until I allowed myself to drift into slumber. But tonight I stand stuck at the apex of the hallway and the living room, eyes drifting between the two possibilities. Behind door one: a set of bunk beds and familiar blankets. A chance to be alone, to think, to rest and regroup. Door two holds something much more daring: Cosima, likely naked and washing herself, a larger bed covered in sheets that still holds our mingled scents.

  


And, despite the fact that I am still glowing from her affection throughout the day, I am not ready for it. I am not ready to have her beneath me again. Not yet.

  


So, I turn left and open my bedroom door, my blankets still upturned from the night before when I had found my way out and into her arms, into her bed. I straighten the covers and smooth the pillow and slip my body between cool sheets. I pull the blankets up to my chin and close my eyes.

  


I take a deep breath and it feels foreign. Like I have been barely breathing all day.

  


I feel the tug of exhaustion at the back of my mind, images fuzzy and already on the verge of unconsciousness. I see her there, green grass swaying behind her, smile in a teasing grin. She has invaded every free space in my consciousness and I am certain I will dream about her. It would not be the first time.

  


And then there is only warmth within me, and a blurring of the edges. Right as the pull of sleep starts to take me under, my door cracks open and my eyes blink wide at the sound.

  


“Delphine, are you awake?” she whispers, her head peeking around the edge. The room behind her is dark, all of the lanterns turned down for the night. Only the gentle flicker of the wood stove surrounds her silhouette.

  


“Mmm?”

  


“You were sleeping.”

  


“Non, non, I am awake.” I sit up slightly and I can see her clearly, one side of her face dimly lit by the stars outside.

  


She pauses and opens the door even more, steps one foot inside my room. She is hesitant, maybe even surprised to find me already settled in a bed that isn’t hers. But we are both fumbling in the figurative and literal dark here, feeling clumsily around for the other person’s boundaries. Yes, we share our lips, our thoughts. But what about our beds? How soon? And under what circumstances?

  


“Can I hold you?” she asks, her voice small, unsure. And I immediately question my choice to sleep in this bed alone because I am overcome once more with the desire to be close to her.

  


“Come here,” I say.

  


“Are you sure?”

  


“Oui, viens ici,” I beckon, and pull back the sheets in front of me. But when she makes it to the bed smelling faintly of lavender soap, she swings her leg over me entirely and slips in behind. She pulls the blanket up over us both and moulds her body tightly to mine, her arm around my waist, hand cupping my ribcage. I feel her knees bent at the same angle as mine, shin against calf, tops of her feet against the soles of mine. Her lips rest against my shoulder blade, not puckered in a kiss, but simply there, simply comforting. Through my nightgown, I feel the steadiness of her breath as it leaves her lungs, warming my skin beneath her nose.

  


We melt into each other, my body warmest in all the places it touches hers. I slide my hand down until it finds hers and slot our fingers together. I feel her thumb rubbing gently over mine and my whole body aches from her tenderness.

  


“Delphine?” she asks again, and I fall in love with the sound of my name in her mouth. I feel my heartbeat quicken, then close my eyes to slow it down. And I wonder if I will get even a second of sleep tonight.

  


“Hmm?”

“When did all of this happen?”

  


“All of what?”

  


“Being _with me_ , like this. When did being with me become an option for you?”

  


A good question. An honest question, asked in such a gentle tone. But I can’t ignore the weight that it carries, all of the questions implied within only one. _Has this been gradual discovery or one born of passion and liquor? Have you really thought this through or will you change your mind? Exactly how heavily should I guard my heart?_

  


And, sadly, I cannot give her a definite answer. I feel her kiss the spot on my shoulder where her lips were resting before. I feel her sigh as she awaits my reply.

  


“I do not know,” I say, choosing truth even as I am buried in lies.  “Maybe from the moment I met you. It was not a conscious until I was too far in to stop it.” Her thumb stops stroking the back of my hand and I can practically hear her thoughts spinning behind me. “What about you?”

  


“Honestly, it still hasn’t really hit me that this is happening. I told myself over and over it never would—that you could never see me _like that_. But, here we are.”

  


Her thumb starts again after a gentle squeeze to my hand and I am swooning all over again, struggling to slow my heartbeat.

  


“Here we are,” I agree.

  


“I’ve been doing that for years, though,” she says absently. “I’ve spent years telling myself no one could ever feel the same about me. And when you told me at the barn this morning that you _choose me_ …” She stops and I can hear her swallow. “I thought I would go my whole life without hearing someone say that.”

  


“What about the girl? From your sketchbook?” I ask, because I am no longer scared of her answer or the conclusions it could bring me to. She is already in my bed, already holding me and kissing me gently on the shoulder.  


 

“Ruth,” she says quietly. “Her name was Ruth.”

 

  
“ She was your lover?”   


 

“Yes.”  


 

Silence settles between us and I give her the space to tell me as little or as much as she would like. I bring our joined hands to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, inviting her to continue.

 

  
“ I was seventeen when we met. She was older than me by a few years, lived by herself downtown above a drugstore. I can’t remember how long we were together. It felt like years but I’m only twenty-four now and I haven’t seen her in a long while.”   


 

“I am sorry,” I say, and rub our feet together, my feeble attempt to soothe her.  


 

“Don’t be. Wasn’t meant to be, clearly,” she says, but I hear the sadness in her words and I hold her just a little bit tighter against me.  


 

“What happened?” I ask.  


 

“She called me one night, crying into the phone, talking about some boy named Jack who was beaten to a pulp at the edge of town and left for dead. He was found the next morning with his head bashed in and slurs marked on his skin.”

  


She doesn’t _say_ the words, doesn't clarify exactly _which words_ , but I know them well.

  


I have heard them spoken with disgust in two languages.

  


“She told me she couldn’t do it anymore, that she felt like people were staring at her from across the street or in the market, like they knew. Kept saying she didn’t want to end up like Jack and she didn’t want me to get hurt either.”  


 

“Do you worry about that? That you will end up like Jack?”  


 

“Of course. I’d be a fool not to,” she says.  


 

And suddenly I feel very foolish myself. Fear of such a cruelty is not one that existed for me in La Tuque. I wonder if it is actually better there, or if I just missed it entirely, caught up in my own worries, my own dramas.

  


“But the good news is,” she whispers, pulling me impossibly closer, our torsos, our hips, our legs slotted perfectly together, “we’re miles away from all that. And right now, all I want is to be a fool with you.”

  


And, foolishly, I let her warmth seep in further. Foolishly, I lean back as she nuzzles her nose into my neck.

 

  
Fools we are, both of us.

 


	19. Dix-Neuf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in less than 24 hours? damn. i must really like you all or something.
> 
> *wipes sweat off forehead*
> 
> this chapter is NSFW. you're welcome.
> 
> also... i am vvv curious about any fan art this story might help create. if any of you are feeling so inclined to draw some moutain Cophine, i would swoon for SURE. + be so grateful.

 

“ Here, let me see,” she says, taking the collection from my grasp. The damaged drawings don’t look as rough as they once did, as if they’ve healed themselves with time. As if  _ time heals all wounds _ applies to grass stains on parchment. She flips to the back and slips out two blank pages. “Let’s do blind contours.”

 

“I am no good at drawing,” I say, which is mostly true. As a child, I would try to draw bugs and plants from a field guide, amazed at all of the different ways there were to be alive. But my lines were always shaky, features out of proportion, image smudged by the side of my hand that would inevitably end up black with graphite. The notion of attempting to draw anything in front of her has me feeling self-conscious. “And what is a blind…what is it?”

 

“ Blind  _ contour _ . And you don’t have to be good at drawing to do this—that’s kinda the whole point.” She pulls a pencil from the folds of paper and holds the point delicately between graceful fingers. “I’ll do you first.”

 

“Okay,” I consent, and take a dry swallow. 

  
  


“So, basically what you do is try to draw a portrait—someone’s face—without looking down at the paper. You just look at your subject the whole time. Then when you’re done, you get some sort of out-of-proportion, mis-matched drawing.” 

  
  


Her hand finds a place in the center of the paper, fingers delicately balancing a pencil between their tips. Even her grip is practiced, confident, the movement of her wrists fluid and loose. 

  
  


I have seen the products of her talent, but never the act itself.

  
  


"For some reason, I suspect yours will still be beautiful, even without looking."

  
  


She grins and tips her head to the side. "Well, how could it not be, what with such a breathtaking subject and all." 

  
  


Her words send heat crawling up my neck.

  
  


Then she looks at me  _ so _ intensely, honey eyes narrowed and fixed in a way they have never been before. But I don’t feel scrutinized under her gaze—objectified and judged as I have when people from La Tuque stared and whispered. There is a humble curiosity—a  _ finding-out _ present here. I am the subject of her study, and she is collecting every detail.

  
  


Her nails are neatly trimmed, fingers tanned darker than mine, especially at the knuckles where small callouses have formed from years of working on the farm.

  
  


“It's a relief I can finally say what I've been thinking in my head all this time,” she says out of nowhere, her eyes focused on my hair, her pencil etching long waves against the paper. “One gal telling another gal she's beautiful every few minutes is guaranteed to raise a few red flags.”

  
  


She laughs to herself, and I love it. I love the way her eyes crinkle at the corners and her smile grows wider and wider, like she knows something I don’t. 

  
  


“So, are we gonna talk about it?” she asks, her hand still moving, her eyes focused.

  
  


“About what?” I reply. “We have talked so much over the past two days. What more could we possibly have to discuss?” I tease, reaching out to squeeze her knee once.

  
  


“That night, after the fire.” she smirks. And judging by the gleam in her eyes, she knows she’s got me pinned. For two days, we have talked around the subject of sex, choosing instead to comb over and over our feelings for one another, our childhoods, our mothers. I curse my body for shifting back and forth, betraying the collected persona I wished to project around this topic. 

  
  


“That whole night was just a blur. There are bits and pieces that I remember, but I lose track of the timeline right after I went inside the cabin.”

  
  


“Right after I kissed you, you mean.”

  
  


“Yes,” I say, remembering the initial warmth of her lips, how it rivaled even the heat of the fire glowing against my cheek. How young I’d been then, how naïve to believe I could feel her mouth on mine only once in my life.

  
  


“So, you don’t remember when you came into my room?  I didn’t think we’d had that much to drink.”

  
  


“Moonshine was a part of it, but… I think I was just so overwhelmed, you know? There were so many thoughts and—and so many things I wanted to say that my brain could not keep up.”

  
  


“ Yeah, I had a lot of thoughts, too. Like, for one:  _ Whoa, what the hell is happening _ ?” She laughs and I join her.

  
  


“And two?”

  
  


“I guess my second thought was how I never wanted it to end.” She tugs nervously with her teeth at the corner of her bottom lip and I melt. I feel my eyelids flutter once and I know she saw it. She leans forward. Her hand has stopped moving.

  
  


“Me, too,” I confess.

  
“ Yeah?” She grins, and sets the pad of paper to the side, our drawing game abandoned. She shifts closer, rises onto her knees, both elbows resting against the top of my shoulders. 

  
  


Briefly I wonder what the picture looks like, if it will allow me even a glimpse at how she sees me. But I can't bring myself to look away from her warm gaze.

  
  


“Oui,” I agree. She leans forward even further, until I can feel her breath on my cheek. I keep myself still. So, so still.

  
  


“ Any parts in particular you didn't want to end?” I  _ feel _ her question more than I hear her. Her nose brushes against the side of my own, her lips ghosting over mine with every word. I know she is smirking. I know it because I feel the curl of her upper lip as she denies me a kiss.

  
  


Images of our only night together flash behind my eyelids as they finally close, her lashes tickling against the top of my cheek.  _ So many parts _ , I think.  _ So many things I didn’t want to end. _ The taste of her skin staining my tongue, the feel of her bucking back beneath me, my breasts smashed against her shoulder blades, sinking my fingers into her and feeling her grip and pulse against my alcohol-clumsy thrusts.

  
  


“A few,” I whisper, and hear her smile widen. A tiny laugh slips from between her teeth.

  
  


When I open my eyes, her face is fuzzy, out of focus from our close proximity.

  
  


“I want that again,” she tells me. “I want you without a drop of alcohol to make me forget even the smallest moment.”

  
  


“ I want that, too.” I feel my breath quicken as the reality of her—of us—hits me all over again.  _ Yes, yes, I want this. _

  
  


Cosima backs away to settle on her knees near my feet. She lifts one of my boots into her lap and tugs the knot free, then loosens the strings and pulls the leather down my ankle and off of my foot. I watch her work at the other one, balancing my heel between her thighs as she removes the shoe and sets it gently in the dancing grass. I watch the pink tip of her tongue as she wets her lips, her dark hair blowing in glossy wisps across her forehead, the sun warm and blazing over her shoulder. 

  
  


I don’t think I have ever seen a sight more glorious.

  
  


Cradling my heel in her hands, she rolls my thin wool sock down to the tips of my toes, undressing my foot with a final, graceful tug. She repeats the reverent action on the other one and I can do nothing but watch her, chest fluttering, as she presses a gentle kiss to the inside arc of my foot—all blue veins webbed beneath translucent skin. The unexpected feel of her lips against those nerves sends electricity up my frame.

  
  


“What are you doing?” I whisper. She smiles at me from behind her glasses and her calloused, gentle hands roll the bottoms of my jeans up to the middle of my calf. Holding my foot in her hand, she kisses the sensitive skin of my ankle and small bump at its side. When her teeth appear and rake gently over the bottom of my shin, an increasingly familiar shiver crawls up my thighs. I send a message of thanks to all sentient beings for the series of events that brought me here, to this field, with this warm and creative woman running her lips up my calves and leaving a trail of fire in her wake. 

  
  


Slowly, slowly, her lips kiss up the inside of my lower legs, all the way up to the jean fabric bunched tight around my knees. When she leans forward to unbutton my pants, our gazes lock again, her eyes dark brown in the shadow of her brows, pupils blown. She nudges up my shirt, nuzzles the skin below my belly button with the tip of her nose, and pulls down the crackling zipper in tandem. “Cosima?” I ask, emphasizing my previous question.

  
  


“I thought it was obvious,” she husks, bites the top band of my underwear between her teeth and tugs with a teasing grin. “Is this okay?” Her eyes are so dark, especially considering the strength of the sun. 

  
  


_ Yes _ , I long to beg.  _ Yes, please _ . 

  
  


“Here?” I say instead, a mild concern at our location tugging at the back of my mind. 

  
  


“Who’s going to see us?” she grins, closing her eyes to run her nose against the middle of my belly, ending the gesture with a sweet kiss. “The sheep are too stupid and the horses can’t talk. I’m hardly worried about a random passer-by.”

  
  


My hand cups her warm cheek, head nodding in agreement and eliciting a faint smile from her mouth. Her fingers wind around the fabric at my hips and pull the denim slowly down my legs, guiding with nimble and deliberate hands until the last bit slips from my ankle and I lay naked from the waist down. The pure lust in her eyes ebbs away any hint of embarrassment that might have otherwise arrived from our premier sober encounter. Around us, only the sounds of mountains, the familiar cadence of sheep wading through rustling grass.

  
  


She sits up, resting on her knees and heels, and unbuttons her dark red shirt. She starts at the top button and works her way down until her collared flannel hangs open, revealing a simple black bra underneath. The look in her eyes is something new entirely: glowing like embers and consuming like fire. It sends quakes through my body—has me gnawing at my lip.

  
  


_ I need her to kiss me, _ I think.  _ I need it. _ And somehow she hears my internal mantra and moves even more slowly. 

  
  


Hers is a proper seduction. A far cry from clumsy drunkenness.

  
  


The fabric slips down her arms and I drink her in, the sun reflecting off of her tanned forearms, her slightly paler stomach. A single, sweet freckle graces one side of her ribcage—a feature I missed that first night. Gently, she takes my hands and pulls me up to sit, untying my halter top at the simple cotton bow behind my neck, lifting the fabric up and over my head. I can hear her breath, steady but shallow, a tiny catch when she sets my shirt next to the blanket. 

  
  


In a matter of minutes, she has stripped me naked in the highlands, has laid me back against the blanket, has covered my lips with her own. She hovers above me, our bodies only touching where the firmness of her thighs straddle the outside of my hips. She props herself up, hands resting at either side of my head.

  
  


Her kiss is simple at first, refusing to open up for me even when I boldly run my tongue against her bottom lip. I can feel myself getting carried away, growing more desperate each moment she insists on keeping our kiss chaste. A deep, toe-curling kiss seems to lay just out of reach and I find myself groaning in frustration at her refusal at the same moment I hear a noise of delight from her. And then I realize: she wants me to  _ want _ this. She wants me to  _ ask _ for it.

  
  


“ _ Cosima _ ,” I say, my own voice unrecognizably desperate. My arms wind around her sides, attempting to pull her nearly-naked chest down against mine. “Kiss me.”

  
  


“ I  _ am _ kissing you,” she grins.

  
  


“You know what I mean,” I grunt, and flick open the clasp on her bra, accentuating my point as it falls down her arms and her breasts become completely visible. 

  
  


That night, I hadn’t paid them much attention, my mind too intoxicated with moonshine and the feeling of her fingers against my sex, but now... now I see her, well lit and open. And though I have not thought much of a woman’s body before I met her, I find myself undeniably drawn to her particularly feminine features: the gentle curves at her sides, the fullness of her bare chest and the dark pink nipples pebbling in the cool air, the smooth skin covering her arms and delicate collar bone. For only a moment, I borrow her perspective. Hers are the swift lines of a practiced hand; hers is the type of beauty that must be studied and reflected upon to be truly understood.

  
  


I slide my hands up her stomach, her muscles clenching beneath my touch, and she closes her eyes when I take the weight of her breasts into my hands. My chest is full,  _ completely _ full, as if I have only been breathing in and not out. Lungs at their breaking point, I exhale finally and flex my fingers. She arches into the squeeze and presses her hips down against mine. 

  
  


And for some reason, this, now feels like the point of no return—though I have certainly been past it for weeks. Utterly hopeless.

  
  


“Hold on,” she says, her hand finding the top button on her jeans and popping it open. “Let me get more comfortable.”

  
  


“Okay,” I giggle, and let go of her breasts. She rises up to shimmy the thick pant fabric down her hips, pulling her underwear with it, kicking off her boots quickly, until the whole mess sits in a pile at our feet. As quickly as she left, she’s back hovering over me, taking both of my hands in hers and guiding them back up to her breasts. I can feel her center hovering over mine, dangerously close, her dark pubic hair tickling below my belly button. It sends a thrill right through me.

  
  


“Much better,” she sighs, and lowers her face to meet mine, teasing my lips with hers. “Now, where were we?”

  
  


Her hair falls forward, her dark waves creating a wall between us and the rest of the world. I can tell that she enjoys the teasing, takes delight in making me wait. I let her have her fun for a moment more before I grip her hips and pull her down with one hand while the other one pulls roughly at the back of her neck and forces her mouth to meet mine. This time, she opens up immediately and sucks gently at my tongue, the erotic sensation dragging a moan from deep inside me.

  
  


Even more than her gentle suction, my body bucks at the pressure of her center pressed against mine. Her legs are spread wide to bring our sexes flush together—a sensation I had not anticipated to feel so amazing. A woman's body—a woman's desire—(I realize more and more as she rocks forward and strokes our hips together) is so different from a man's. Rather, Cosima's is so different from Christophe's. She is warm and inviting, coaxing out every shiver of pleasure, drawing out every touch and grinding lightly against me until I'm clutching at her hips, begging with the pressure of my palms against her flesh for her to move faster. 

  
  


Not one part of her demands. Not one part of her lays claim.

  
  


She rocks even harder, lowers her chest completely, her soft breasts crushed and heaving against mine. That feeling alone is enough to send my head slamming back into the ground, ripping my mouth away from hers to let out a small cry. And it only seems to excite her further.

  
  


Her curious mouth nips at my ear, my neck, my collarbone and shoulder. The loss of her pressure at my core has me whining until she slides her hips down and between my legs, pushing my thighs apart. She easily makes up for the loss by taking my breast into her mouth, the pink of her tongue peeking out as it circles a swollen nipple and her teeth bite down gently. It's a sensation I've never felt before—at least not like  _ this _ . Christophe has tried this in the past, of course. But for some reason—whether her familiarity with my anatomy or the fact that I'm so worked up—Cosima has me teetering on the edge of way-too-sensitive. And within a matter of minutes she has reduced me to a writhing, embarrassingly needy version of myself. "S'il te plait," I whimper, and attempt to strengthen my voice. "It's too much."

  
  


"Mmm," she hums. Her mouth pops away as she gently kisses the underside of the breast she'd been tending to. So many spots glisten in the sun, evidence of her exploration. "Sorry, I got a little carried away. And you're so sensitive," she moans. "You were that night, too."

  
  


"You make me that way," I pant, cradling her face in my palms, attempting to relieve some of the tension by rocking up into her belly. She smiles at my insistence, encouraged by my lack of self control.

  
  


"Can I touch you?" she smiles, swirling the tips of her fingers against the outside of my thighs. 

  
  


"You already are," I reply, though I understand what she's really asking. So I guide one of her hands up the inside of my thigh, finally holding her palm tight against me as she cups my sex. 

  
  


" _ Shit _ ," I hear her mutter under her breath, her hand sliding against me, slipping easily in wetness she has already teased out. " _ Oh, Lord _ ," she sighs again. And when I look down at her, I am taken aback by her unexpectedly predatory gaze—eye teeth exposed, both canines glistening at the corners of a faint smile.

  
  


When she parts me, she doesn't look away. She just lets her fingers explore gently, slipping and swirling against sensitive skin, a small, satisfied curl present on her lips. The other hand is braced against my bare thigh, squeezing in a gentle rhythm. And when she slides inside, her eyes fall shut and her teeth wring out her bottom lip. She groans, and her sounds mingle with mine—an uncontrollable gasp, an unceremonious buck of my hips onto her fingers.

  
  


She presses a kiss just above my knee, then another just above the last. She makes her way up my thigh, slowly, slowly, until her tongue flicks out to trace the crease between my thigh and my center.

  
  


"Merde!" I cry, hips rising from the blanket. Nothing has ever felt like this before. How is it possible that the gentle pull of her fingers could evoke a tingle down every vertebrae? How is it possible that the faint warmth of her breath against could cause every cell to throb? 

  
  


And just like two nights ago, I am overcome by the desire to have her at the same time.

  
  


"I want to touch you, too," I confess, my voice unrecognizably deep.

  
  


I try to pull her up by the shoulders, but she resists me. "Later," she says, and dips her tongue inside of my belly button. Her fingers shift to a shallow pulse just inside of me, and I immediately want to push her back inside, squirming my hips to plead my case. "I need to remember this.  _ I have to _ ,” she says, her voice tinged with sadness.

  
  


And quickly cutting through the heavy arousal is the jabbing reminder that all of this is temporary. That her perfect hands and perfect lips have an expiration date. That this agreement we have made will one day end. It will likely dissolve during our final descent—as whatever  _ this _ is becomes displaced by reality. 

  
  


So I let her make her memories. I let her make them because I want her to do the same for me in the weeks to come. I let her touch and kiss in all of the places she wants to and, in tandem, I greedily file away every movement, every sensation for myself: how her mouth grows bolder and her eyes close as she hovers over me. How she moans to herself the first time her tongue parts me, the warm muscle fluttering gently against my sex. How her grip grows tighter each time my hips jerk forward; how she smiles against me in delight at my lack of control, her eyes fading in and out of focus. How she stays gentle and attentive as my pleasure builds, even when my nails dig into her forearm and I lock my fingers through her hair. How her persistent and focused tongue is joined by a pulsing finger, and I feel myself quickly hurling towards my breaking point, breath ragged and back arching up off the blanket as a blinding pleasure rockets through every cell. How my torn voice cries out into the vast emptiness of the Wyoming highlands for her, and no one else. How her lips kiss gently against too-sensitive skin as I come down, my whole body heavy and sated. 

  
  


I commit all of this to memory and every second becomes an irreplaceable part of me. 

  
  


I watch her wipe her mouth with her palm, her eyes still hooded as she crawls up my body, settling her hips between my open thighs. My whole body shudders when I feel her rest against me. “Thank you,” she whispers, and lowers her full weight on top of me, her cheek finding a resting place against my shoulder, her one hand drawn up and tracing swirls on my collar bone. I can't help but think it a strange thing for her to say. She has given me so much.  _ I  _ should be the one thanking  _ her _ .

  
  


I squeeze her tighter against me, her whole body cradled by mine, content with her and cherishing the sweetness of this easy silence between us.

  
  


But then I feel her eyelashes fluttering against my shoulder. I feel her mouth open up to speak. 

  
  


“Did you think of him? That first night we were together?” she asks, so so softly. 

  
  


“Not even once," I say, honestly. 

  
  


And even with the amount of time I've dedicated to thinking of Christophe over the past two days—the time I've committed to feeling guilty, then angry, then resolved in my decision to damn the consequences and dive headfirst into this world Cosima and I have built—I am completely confident that he did not cross my mind for even a moment that night. 

  
  


“Okay,” she says, and I can hear that she is hesitant to believe me.

  
  


I feel the pull—the dissonance—once more between these two people I have become. Even the flashes of the guilt that had me vomiting in a field two days ago make their appearance. But, the shame is less powerful now, and it has lost its sting. It is not strong enough to stop me from fantasizing about staying here forever, to spend this summer and fall and winter and every season after in this place. 

  
  


With the weight of her head on my chest, I envision us together, burning a fire in the cabin stove to keep warm with a blizzard outside. I see us picking wild currants and mushrooms, making cheese and yogurt and butter with animal milk, drying fish caught in the river. I can nearly  _ feel _ us, older, on the front steps, kissing and laughing without a care—without a single bigoted glance in our direction because the sheep are too stupid and the horses cannot talk.

  
  


I hold Cosima closer, her fingers trailing absentmindedly down my sides and back up again. She presses a gentle kiss to my shoulder and sighs before burying her nose in the crook of my neck.

 

  
I let the fantasy play again and again in my head. I let it repeat for as long as it can, actively pushing aside the reminder that, some day, all of this will end.

 


	20. Vingt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OFF, shout out to my lovely Patrons who are providing me with all the tea and donuts I could ever need:
> 
> Scottie2  
> nerd-a1ert  
> Celine1618  
> aranra  
> Orfanblk  
> Okimafan  
> TheTravelingKid  
> Somethinelse
> 
> Those of you who tipped me at Sneak Peek Level should have gotten your Chapter 21 peeks a few days ago. Please let me know if you didn't and I will send it your way :)
> 
> If you would like to tip me, go here: https://www.patreon.com/tumblweed
> 
> \---------
> 
> SECONDLY,
> 
> Originally, this chapter wasn’t a part of my plotted out chapters, but I figured y'all needed a little more smut/fluff before everything goes to shit (#spoileralert… as if you didn’t already know). So, I whipped this scene together for you this week as a little reprieve from the angst that awaits. 
> 
> ALSO, Celine1618 brought to my attention that this past Wednesday was the 10 year anniversary of the Brokeback Mountain film release. In honor of that, this chapter is _especially_ NSFW. ;)
> 
> Thank you for the amazing fan art from njbinky2k and TheTravelingKid that I have received since posting the last chapter. Ya’ll are some talented individuals and I am beyond impressed/grateful that you took the time to make those drawings. Like, whoaaaaaa.

 

There is no more uncertainty about where we sleep.

  


The room with the bunk beds has become simply the place where I keep my belongings and, even still, many of them have found their way into the other room, mingling with hers in the dresser drawers.

  


Every night, after we close up the barn and secure the herd for the evening, we walk to the cabin and make ourselves something to eat. Cosima starts a fire in the tiny stove to melt away the frigid air inside until warmth enters our bones again. And every night, I wash my face and hands and slip into my nightgown. Then I watch her do the same, admiring the shape of her body as it disappears beneath flimsy cotton. I don’t know why we do it, really: dressing in sleepwear just to remove it moments later when she crawls into bed and I am once again overcome with an urgency to feel her skin against mine.

  


Perhaps it is the routine of it all. Perhaps it is still just too satisfying to undress each other—still the thrill of discovery and anticipation as our hems ride up and slowly reveal every patch of skin. I have come to live for that moment when she finally pulls it over her head, when she becomes naked before me, her eyes dark and desire thick.

  


And it’s true that every time we make love feels like the first time because, in a way, _it is_. There is always something new to discover. Some place I have never kissed—some way I have never touched her.

  


And I want it all.

  


I have become insatiable under her knowing touches; just the smallest graze of her lips against mine or the simple pressure of her thigh slipping between my own is enough to stoke a raging fire within me—one that consumes and consumes until I am aching and sweating and can barely move. Only then do we fall into a mutual slumber, Cosima curled against my side or holding me from behind. No matter where we settle, she is always firmly next to me, always pulling me as closely as our bodies will allow. And slowly, I have started to wonder how I ever slept without her.

  


Tonight is no different than all of the nights before. My hands and face are scrubbed clean, teeth brushed, nightgown on, legs beneath the quickly-warming covers. A small lantern glows in the corner of our bedroom, flickering long shadows up wooden walls.

  


Cosima is at the dresser, bent over to pull off her pants and socks, her bare butt dimpling adorably at the sides as she stands up straight to remove her sweater. Though a small flash of arousal runs through me at the sight of her undress, mostly what rises up is simply… _affection_. A sweetness, an easiness. I cannot look away from them, those two lovable dimples. I want to admire them and kiss them in a way that is more _intimate_ than _sexual_. Once again, I feel my heart swell for her, already much too large for my rib cage.

  


Tonight, however, she turns around without putting on the nightgown at all and I cannot keep my eyes from sweeping across her body. She is so small and compact, the muscles at the sides of her thighs flexing against the softness of her hips as she sways to the edge of the bed. I notice the angle where ribs meet waist, how they flow seamlessly together in a gentle slope beneath her breasts. How badly I want to touch that place, to let my hand sit right in the hollow and pull her to me.

  


She smiles at me sans glasses and pulls back the covers, her hair loose and resting against her shoulders. One leg swings over to the other side until she is straddling me, her cold feet sliding against my legs and tucking beneath my knees for warmth. I can feel her watching me as I look over her once more, breath caught in my throat, noticing a few small blemishes against her sternum and the base of her neck from the nights before. Some of them have faded with time; others are still a magnificent shade of purple against her olive skin.

  


“Hi,” she grins, and draws my attention back to her face. She brushes the wild waves back from my forehead and one arm winds around my neck.

  


“Salut,” I reply, my hands finding her waist, palm finally resting in the dip it longed to.

  


Her face is close, eyes hooded and watching me closely. Her breath smells of mint, and her skin of lavender. Somehow, the scent of her soap is omnipresent, even after a full day on horseback or a treacherous journey to and from a new grazing area. Even when mingled with her sweat, it is always there. Lavender.

  


She closes her eyes and kisses my ear once, then my jaw, then a sweet peck to my lips. She sighs and nuzzles our cheeks together.

  


“Thought I would save you some time,” she says boldly, grinning.

  


“You are very confident,” I tease, cherishing every bit of playful banter that arises between us.

 

With so many heavy conversations in our past and most certainly in our future, I embrace these interactions and tuck them away for safekeeping.

  


“Why wouldn’t I be? You clearly can’t resist me,” she challenges, combing her fingers up the back of my head and weaving them in my hair. Cheeky, just like the first time I met her. _I was clever when I was six_ , I hear her say, the auditory memory easily brought into consciousness.

  


“You are such a brat,” I say.

  


But, also, it is true: _I can’t resist her._

  


“Am I?” she asks, then tugs at my hair playfully, smile growing even wider.

  


“Oui.”

  


“Maybe. But, I’m also right.” Her free hand slides down to hold mine and drags it up to her chest. She sighs when I graze my thumb over the pebble of her nipple, then rests her forehead against mine. Her hips rock forward once, grinding hotly against mine in a gentle thrust, and I lose my last remaining intentions for a slow seduction.

  


I pull her tighter to me, one arm around her waist and the other teasing at her breast, as she rocks forward again. Our breaths catch in tandem just before our mouths meet in an open kiss. Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me closer as a tiny moan slips from her and is caught in the mess of our lips.

  


She holds me like that for minutes, my jaw tilted up to meet her demanding kiss, both of us pulling away at times to catch our breath, to kiss necks and jaws and shoulders in need of attention, but still always returning back to a deep, satisfying embrace.

  


Her hips roll forward erratically, then with an increasingly distinct rhythm until, finally, I can’t resist the urge to touch her any longer. I guide my hand from the small of her back, around her hip and thigh and find her already so wet there is a patch of her arousal stained on the bottom of my nightgown.

  


Her whole body stiffens as I coat my fingers in her desire, stroking her gently, intent to, if only for a moment, draw out all of those tiny, simple shivers of pleasure. “ _Please,_ ” she sighs, and takes her bottom lip up between her teeth, dark eyes fixed right on mine. A roaring wave of need for her crashes over me at the simple request. And like so many times before, I can’t help myself; I slip two fingers inside her at once, caught up in some primal need to fill her as much as I can.

  


Right away we find our rhythm, hips meeting hand. She anchors her arms against my shoulders, bare stomach flexing and rolling forward, sweet sounds of pleasure slipping from her mouth and vibrating against my eardrum. I feel her, pulsing and gripping against my fingers, my head intoxicated by the scent of her arousal, of her sweat, of lavender.

  


And it's all so glorious.

  


Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. _I want this_ , I think. _I want you. Every day, all the time._

  


“Mon amour,” I groan, lost in my fantasy, and her eyes blink open wide.

  


I didn’t mean to say it—didn’t mean to call her _my love_. I have never called her anything but her name out loud. But she takes her bottom lip between her teeth and lets out a gentle whimper at my unexpected term of endearment. Her hips move faster against my hand, encouraged by words never spoken before, and I meet her stroke for stroke, my arm already burning from matching her strength.

  


She takes my jaw in one hand and holds my face in place, tilts my mouth up to meet hers. She kisses me with a passion I have never known before—her tongue sweeping against the backs of my teeth in an act of pure possession.

  


And I lean into it—I give back every bit that she gives me.

  


I possess her as well.

  


And in my possession, I rock forward and roll us over so that her head is at the foot of the bed and her legs wrap tight against my waist, knees drawn up to the backs of my arms. Her head tips back as she lets out a sound of delight and surprise that brings with it a new wave of strength to my burning muscles. “Oh!” she cries, and weaves her arms around my ribs, pulling me closer, her head snapping forward to meet my eyes, her body rocking up into mine. " _Don't stop_ ," she pleads.

  


Our change in position relieves the strain on my wrist and I quicken my pace with ease, fingers completely enveloped in her pulsing warmth, her gaze fixated on mine and eyelashes fluttering. I can tell she is close; I feel her muscles gripping against my digits, drawing them in deeper. And all I can think of is how badly I need to feel her lose control—how I can’t stop working until I see that beautiful wave of pleasure flash across her features, watch that crimson blush spread up her neck and cheeks. I brace the back of my hand against my thigh and thrust even harder, encouraged by her gently-whispered mantra of _yes, yes, oh God, yes_ mingling with her labored breath.

  


The whole room is a chorus of sounds—the wet smack of our lips, the rushed panting of our breath, the howling of the night against our small window, the rustle and squeak of the mattress beneath us. The white noise of it all builds louder and louder until she reaches down between us, knees nearly at her shoulders, and tugs the heel of my palm flat against her heat, bucking up once, twice, three times before her back arches forward and her voice sings our symphony’s grand finale. Smooth, strong muscles clench against my digits and I strum against them, slowing my strokes to draw out her pleasure.

  


Her small body shakes beneath mine, quaking and quaking until, finally, she is still, chest heaving, arms loosening from their grip on my shoulders. Her legs fall to the side and I lean forward to kiss her neck as she comes down.

  


“Please,” she moans, holding the back of my neck as my lips graze her jaw. “Keep going.”

  


So, I do.

 

 

It's true that I can't deny her.

  


Even with my burning arm and burning thighs and burning abdominals, I keep going. I press into her again and again, and she moves her heels to rest against the small of my back, eyes closed and head tipped back. I can feel the pool of arousal and sweat between us, our bodies slipping together easily. Her hand twitches between us, quick fingers bumping against my wet palm as we work together to bring her to the second edge.

  


And when she moans and cries and shakes beneath me for the second time, I find my own sort of release as well: one of satisfaction and contentment and joy. I collapse forward, her gentle hands pushing back damp waves from the side of my face, her lips pressing a line of pecks down the side of my neck.

  


“ _God_ ,” she groans, and rakes her nails lightly down my spine.

  


“Precisely,” I reply, and I feel her laugh.

  


“You're getting really good at that,” she hums. Her hands find my cheeks and pull my face to hers, our noses touching, her honey eyes open wide. One hand slips down my back and beneath the bottom of my nightgown to cup one cheek and squeeze. “You must be exhausted.”

  


“I am,” I say, unable to hide the blush brought on by her compliment and the sincerity of her gratification. “Every night I go to sleep more tired than I have ever been—thinking I won't be able to move for days—and by the time I wake, my need to have you is as strong as ever.”

  


“You can't escape it,” she grins, and squeezes my other cheek with her other hand. “Might as well embrace it.”

  


“Hmm,” I agree, and rock my hips forward gently. She gasps. Her hands slide up to my shoulder blades and she rolls us to the side, then further still until I am on my back and she has taken my place, hovering over me with a playful grin.

  


In a matter of seconds, the hem is up around my hips and she is guiding my underwear down my legs, around my ankles and feet. Mere moments pass before she hooks my thighs over her shoulders and nuzzles her nose against my pubic bone. She smiles to herself just before she takes me into her mouth and I feel her embrace me completely, accepting the futility of our resistance.

 

  
Then the seconds and moments come faster and faster, blurring together until I see nothing but a blinding light. Until nothing but lightness remains.

 


	21. Vingt Et Un

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Getting back on track for Friday updates in 2016!! I'm posting early because I really like you all (and I have the day off today, #thankyousweetfrenchbabyjesus).**
> 
> **Sorry that I fell off for two weeks. The holidays were busier than I thought they would be, tbh.**
> 
> For the reader who requested links to the amazing fan art, here ya go:
> 
> http://thetravelingkid.tumblr.com/post/134576598340/xthetumblweedx-stetson-hats-are-hard-man  
> http://njbinky2k.tumblr.com/post/134567032773/for-xthetumblweedx

 

 

"Are you ready?" she asks squeezing my hand, laced and cradled in her own. The sun is out and high in the sky, warming our naked skin. There is no breeze, at least not now, so the shivers running up my legs and down my arms must be from anticipation alone. Maybe a few from the proximity of her body.

 

"I'm nervous."

 

"Don't worry. I used to do this all the time as a kid. And look—I'm still kickin'."

 

"What if I land on something? A rock? A fish?"

 

She laughs. "All the rocks are off to the side. And, well, if you _do_ hit a fish, I’d be more worried about _it_ than _you_.”

 

I huff at her response and she laughs, made giddy by my nervousness.

 

"See down there?" She tugs my hand to the edge of the red rock we're standing on, the one currently burning the soles of my feet. My stomach drops when I see the distance again, at least ten metres above a glassy dark blue lake.

 

"We must be two stories up."

 

"More like three. Do you want me to go first?"

 

"Non, I want to go with you."

 

"It's safe, I promise." She pulls me close, our bare bodies flush with her arm braced on my lower back. A distinct curl in her upper lip, smile baring her pearly teeth. "Do you trust me?" she teases.

 

"Bien sûr." Our foreheads are pressed together, noses touching. The mismanaged curls on my head graze her cheeks, glowing translucent gold in the midday sun. Her face is bare, free of glasses, and I am rewarded with an unobstructed view of her mischevious eyes.

 

"Then fall with me." Her voice is low and I feel every syllabic puff of air against my lips. I want to kiss her, to lean forward a few centimeters and close the gap, perhaps even distract her from this adrenaline-inducing pastime. But she is already pulling away, already holding my hand again, assuming her ready-to-leap stance. She always looks ready, whatever it is we’re doing. She’s always one step ahead, guiding me into a new adventure.

 

"Okay,” I shudder, squeezing her hand.

 

“Ready?”

 

I can’t answer her with words this time. Nerves have taken over my vocal chords, frozen them in place. So, I nod and fill my chest with anxious air, thinking of the distance and the number of seconds that my body will soar through air until I crash into still water.

 

“Try not to do a belly-slap,” she laughs, and guides me two steps to the edge. "Don't forget—feet first and squeeze your butt together." She emphasizes the second instruction with a quick slap to my rear and a giggle. My toes hang over the side of the rock, curl around the rough slab. The water is so far away. It looks like kilometers. But she leans forward, my hand still in hers, and bends at the knees, ready to spring.

 

I hesitate for a split second, and time passes in half-time. Our hands are laced and she squeezes her fingers, refusing to cut me loose. I consider slipping from her grip, but the thought of losing that connection keeps me holding on. I can’t let her go without me.

 

She surges forward and my legs bend in tandem, watching her as I throw myself into the air, submitting to gravity’s pull. Her hair flows behind her, lifting with our descent, an excited squeal projecting from her mouth. I’m screaming, too. My stomach drops as we soar weightlessly together, joined at the hands and the heart, cardiac muscle thumping so loud I can hear it even through our joyful yells.

 

The water rises up to meet us quickly. My eyes stay focused on Cosima through the whole journey down until we hit black glass, my body plunging into the chilly water, feet-first. Cosima’s hand slips from mine once we’re under, my body submerged, bubbling water swirling around me. I forgot to take a deep breath during the fall and my brain screams for oxygen, disoriented in the dark water. I open my eyes and propel myself towards the light, surfacing with a gasp, sucking air in as I tread water. I brush the wet clumps of hair out of my eyes and tread in a circle, waiting for Cosima to breach the rippling surface.

 

“Cosima?” I yell, panic rising. We jumped at the same time. She should be up by now. “ _Cosima?_ ” My eyes whip across the whole surface of the lake, looking for any sign of her, my heart racing even harder now than it was during the fall, harder than it does when we kiss. I take a gulp of air and put my head under, looking as best as I can through the cool water, but I see nothing but black. The cliff casts a shadow and prevents the sun from illuminating the water below.

 

I pull my head up and whip the hair from my face once more. “Cosima!” I scream, a sob building in my throat. I’m in the middle of nowhere, naked, responsible for a hundred sheep grazing a field over, and my… _my_ _Cosima_ is nowhere to be found. She hit a rock, she must have. _Mon dieu, I told her we should not have done this!_

 

I stop treading and swim to the wall of the cliff, towards a bulging rock, hoping to get a better view from above. My foot hits something mid-stroke, something grasping up my ankle and calf. “Cosima?” I say, spinning violently in the water to face the source of the touch.

 

Her hands come up first, splashing at me, and her head follows quickly, slipping from her lake-womb into the air with a smile on her face. She’s laughing hysterically, showing her widest smile, flinging drops of water my way.

 

“You forgot to breathe, didn’t you?” she grins, but I can’t play along right now. The sob that had been building is still lodged at the back of my tongue.

 

“Why did you do that?!”

 

“Do what?”

 

“I thought you drowned!” I yell.

 

“I didn’t!” she laughs, flicking water at me playfully. “I remembered to breathe before we went under.”

 

“Why would you trick me like that!?” Heat rises up my neck, creeps down my arms, a mixture of relief and annoyance and fear, mingled together. And behind it all, anger. Not directed at her, strangely, but at myself. For overreacting intensely to something so benign.

 

She wipes the water from her face with her open hand, blows out the little drops of water between her lips.

 

“Delphine, come on, don’t be mad. I was just playing,” she says.

 

But it doesn’t feel playful to me.

 

For a moment, she was gone. For a moment, she was not mine. And I nearly lost my head with worry. What was, in reality, no more than 20 seconds, felt like hours.

 

When the times comes for us to part ways, what will the hours feel like? The weeks, the months?

 

_Will years feel like lifetimes without her?_

 

“Though I won’t lie—it’s nice to see how much you care,” she says, still faintly smiling, the corners of her eyes pulled down by dark implications beneath her confession. Her head bobs up and down over the surface of still water, both of us still treading water, the lake floor far below.

 

“I care about you,” I say out loud, the words strange in my mouth and my ear. Before now, I have only said it inside, very quietly, to myself.

 

“I care about you, too,” she says, her voice low, her eyes open wide and dark, her hair slicked back with water, a single drop dangling from the tip of her nose. “A lot.”

 

“I feel about you in a way I have never felt about anyone,” I admit, this rare moment of honesty simultaneously freeing and confining. A small crack in my dam, a stream of what has been contained seeps out. One weak point in steel and concrete; the whole contraption _creaks_ and _moans_ against the weight of it all. Oceans of unspoken thoughts.

 

“Yeah?” she asks, swimming closer until our kicking legs and feet tap together. Her hands find mine below the surface, the outline of our bodies distorted by the ripples and pale in contrast to the darkness of the water. Our hands link together, each of her fingers slotted in between mine.

 

“Yes.”

 

Her tongue flicks out quickly to lick the lake water from her lips, just as she always does before she kisses me. I expect her to crash into me, to kiss me deeply, to let the passion of our declarations crackle between us. But, like so many times before, she surprises me with the unexpected. Her lips meet mine gently, her mouth open slightly, waiting. And I meet her there. I can feel her smile as I return everything she gives me, our lips and teeth and tongues dancing playfully together.

 

_I love you,_ I think. _God, I love you._ And more than ever before, I want to say it.

 

But, I can’t.

 

I know that I love her; there is no doubt. But to say the words will share my burden, would force her to carry the weight of my truth.

 

I wonder if she is bearing her own burden towards me, one similar in size and shape and meaning. I wonder if there are words inside of her that she cannot say because we are two months into a three-month stay in a world that we have created—one with a looming expiration date. I wonder if speaking truth would bring the illusion of our universe crashing down around us.

 

I wrap my arm around her neck and she sinks down until her chin touches the surface. With nothing to stand on, we pull each other further into water that will eventually suffocate us both. Heavy, sinking stones, we are.

 

“We’re going to drown if we keep this up,” she says, pulling away. Her fingers slip from between mine and, suddenly, my hand is empty. Hollow. “Come on.” She goes beneath the surface and I watch the pale, distorted outline of her body swim to the bottom of the cliff, then rise up with a deep inhale. She pulls herself up onto the rocks, her bare body perched on the edge of a gray boulder.

 

I follow her path and paddle to where she sits, pulling myself up next to her, settling on a rock slightly more elevated than hers. The water, which felt so icy at first, is now warm compared to the air. The prickle of blooming goosebumps trails up my back and down my limbs, my skin rising to protest the change in temperature. Roughly textured stone rubs against the bottom of my thighs and buttocks.

 

“So,” she begins, “Like _no one_ else, huh?” She grins, rests her hand on my ankle and squeezes lightly. She wants to hear more, I can tell. These are the conversations we have both so skillfully avoided, the topics we have cut and separated from our time together.

 

_Creak, moan._

 

“Shh,” I hush, placing one finger on her lips. She kisses the pad gently, surrendering to my request.

 

Between the rocks next to us grows a patch of Castilleja—the plant Cosima called prairie-fire a few weeks ago in passing. While she watches me closely, I pluck one stem from the patch and strip off the tiny red flowers, then crush them in my fingertips. The pulp tints my skin pink. Absentmindedly, I roll it against the rock as well, leaving behind a pink streak.

 

Quietly, she takes the crushed petals from my grasp and rolls them against the base of the cliff. Her arm extended, spine lengthened to reach above our heads, I watch her paint a pointed heart against the rough surface. And beneath it, _Summer_ _1957_.

 

"So it doesn't wash away when the water rises," she explains once it is finished.

 

"It might fade eventually."

 

"It might," she agrees, and tosses the spent prairie fire into the water below.  "But, maybe the cliff will protect it from the rain. Maybe whatever we write here will outlast even us."

 

_Us_ , as in the end of us together, the end of the summer? Or _us_ as in our bodies when we die, hopefully years and years from now? Either way, we are apart. There is no scenario in which “us” outlasts anything.

 

Unless it does.

 

Unless there is a way to realize the image that replays again and again in my mind—of Cosima with gray strands of hair intermingled with black. Cosima with the corners of her eyes crinkled in a wide smile, wearing that same dark brown stetson. Cosima on the front porch of the cabin, a cup of horrible, burnt coffee steaming in her hand and, all around us, the highlands in full bloom. With a larger barn, we could keep sheep there all year long. With periodic trips into the lowlands, we could survive.

 

This summer could stretch out into years, into whole lives. A life I never imagined I could live, so close I can nearly touch it. And it touches me back as she turns and kneels before me, her whole body bent toward mine, one hand finding my thigh, the other gripping the boulder beneath me.

 

“We can always come back next summer and check,” she says, her voice so tender I can hear the vulnerable thumping of her heart between syllables. She looks down at the place where her thumb brushes a collection of water droplets back and forth against my goosebumped skin.

 

“And the summer after that?”

 

_Creak, moan._

 

“Absolutely,” she replies. The pulse in my neck _thumps_ beneath chilly skin. She leans forward and presses her lips to the peak of my knee. I shiver at the warmth of her mouth. She smiles and tips back her head to look at me, licks her lips again. “I’ve been thinking about staying the rest of the year, too. Bringing the flock back to the ranch and comin’ back up to the cabin with Twist. The winters up here are harsh, but the peace and quiet might be worth the cold. Figure I could stock up on firewood all fall, then coast into spring.”

 

My heart drops to my gut, dense and thumping at her unspoken invitation. Her eyes stay with mine. Our lungs fill and empty in tandem.

 

“That sounds lovely,” I reply, the fantasy growing sharper, more defined, in my mind. Cosima by the flickering stove, snow gathered on the windowsills. Cosima bundled up, leaving trails of boot prints across the lawn. Cosima, still curled up next to me as the late sun rises.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “Real _lovely_.”

 

She looks down, squeezes my knee. Exhales.

 

“We have time for a few more dives before we need to head back,” she says as she rises, her bare feet finding purchase atop two rocks, swaying slightly before she finds her balance. “Wanna jump with me again?”

 

“Yes,” I agree, and take the hand she offers.

 

This time, I will breathe deeply, fill my whole chest with mountain air. This time, I will remember to hold my breath before we fall.


	22. Vingt-Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> but, did you ever really trust me, tho?
> 
> *flips hair*

 

“Did you know that if you had a mole right _here_ ,” she emphasizes, pressing a finger next to my spine, “you would have an almost perfect beauty-mark Orion constellation on your back?”

  


“Vraiment?”

  


“Yeah,” she says, tracing her finger, connecting the dots. We are in our room, laying naked in white sheets, our legs twisted together. I am on my stomach with a pillow bunched under my head and I can feel her hovering over me, rubbing the tops of her feet against the soles of mine. “You’re missing his right shoulder. I think it’s...Bellatrix?”

  


“I am not sure,” I say. “I don’t know anything about stars.”

  


“Hmmm.” She leans in to ghost her mouth against my back, tracing the path just traveled by her finger. “Here is the shield.” I let my eyes close, allow my skin to drink in the open affection. “And these three _here_ ,” she plants three tiny pecks to the right of my spine, “are the belt.”

  


She pulls the hair back from my neck, tangling her fingers in what will surely become knots by morning, and kisses behind my ear. I can feel her sigh into my neck, her open palm caressing my ribcage. “And the sword? Doesn’t Orion have a sword?” I ask, not yet done revelling in her mouth on my back.

  


“Ahh, I think it’s a _club_. Let me see…”

  


“It’s very important that he have a club.”

  


“I agree,” she says, smiling against my skin. “And he does. Right _here._ ”

  


I can’t help but smile along with her while she kisses against my left shoulder blade. And I can’t help but sigh when she moves over me even further, until her body is laying its full length on top of mine, tables turned from our first night, weeks ago. She turns her head and rests it on my shoulder and we both look in the direction of our door.

  


“Your skin makes me want to go outside and look at the stars.”

  


“It’s so late,” I say. My limbs are sloth-like, heavy with exhaustion, body sandwiched between her warmth and the mattress. Cocooned, I protest. “And when the sun goes down, it gets so cold.”

  


“We have coats. And pants. Remember _clothing_?” She laughs, pokes at my waist, grins into the back of my neck. Then, she wiggles against me and lifts herself, a cool rush of air on my skin. “Come on,” she coaxes, bending down to pick at the pieces of clothing we’d lost along the way from the front door to our bedroom. “I want to show you something.”

  


“Okay,” I huff, dramatizing my annoyance, even adding in an eye roll for good measure.

  


She smirks and tosses a few articles of clothing in my direction while I sit up begrudgingly to put them on.

  


I watch her as I dress myself, small frame bent over, pulling dark denim up her legs. The shape of them has my chest in a twist, the way the muscles of her thighs flex and ripple as she balances on one leg, and then the other. She pulls on a white shirt, sans bra, and loops her hair out in one swoop of her hand, then ties it back in a simple bun. Through the fabric, very little is left to imagination. I can't decide if it's because I know her body so well after weeks of making love, or if the cotton is truly as translucent as it seems.

  


"Delphine?" she asks. "Get distracted?"

  


She looks down at me, smirking, and settling glasses on her nose. I've got a shirt over my arms, but no pants or socks or coat to speak of.

  


"Only enjoying the view."

  


She laughs and bends over to kiss me where I sit on our bed. "I'm going to find some blankets. Meet me out there?"

  


"Oui."

  


" _Oui_ ," she teases, and walks out the door.

  


I stand to pull on my pants. My whole body feels sore and achy, like every organ, every limb, is constantly shedding the old and creating new. Like not one cell is the same as it was on our ascent into the mountains.

  


The aches are unlike anything I've felt before. But then, I've never felt _any_ of this.

  


I am a foreigner to this land in more ways than one. A foreigner of palpable desire, of feeling completely content. I'm a foreigner of this new kind of love that didn't exist before transhumance and the Big Horn Mountains.

  


Before Cosima.

  


A door opens and shuts in the other room and I hear Cosima shuffling back and forth, her boots heavy on the wood floors. I pull a coat on over the rest of my outfit—body finally covered in thick, cosy fabric—and join her as she's walking out the front door.

  


We walk for a while, to find to the darkest sky with the brightest glowing stars. Her hand is laced with mine, a source of warmth in the heavy, frigid air. Like the rest of her body, Cosima's hand is smaller than mine. Her strong, graceful digits do not spread my fingers in the uncomfortable way that Christophe's wide hands do.

  


As his name passes through my mind, I sigh. These days, thoughts of him are rare. I have become wrapped up in this world, lost in the fantasy of its sustainability. As if La Tuque, and the freckled boy from up the street, and Maman's still chest and cold limbs are all but a dream from which I shook myself awake.

  


_This_ has become my reality—and reality, an illusion.

  


"You okay?" The simple squeeze of her fingers pulls me back. "You got quiet."

  


"Yes, I am okay. Lost in thought, you know?"

  


"I do, actually." With a final squeeze, she lets go of my hand. We have walked far enough, so she shakes out the blanket and floats it gently to the ground. She lays down with her face turned up to the sky, features lit with blue starlight, her boots hanging over the edge of the fabric on the grass. She pats the spot next to her and I join, our shoulders and hands and hips pressed tight together, sharing in warmth.

  


"I was thinking how I keep losing track of time up here. Every day is so similar, it is hard to know how much has passed." _And how time much we have left_ , I think, my brain completing the thought my tongue can't bear to finish.

  


Cosima is quiet for a moment. I wonder if she is thinking the same thing, if our connection exceeds even the physical and emotional, if we might share a thought without any words at all.

  


"It's easy to lose track up here, I know. It's easy to forget about almost everything else.”

  


“It is easy to forget that different lives are waiting for us down the mountain,” I agree, and pull her very close, arms tight around her shoulders. Her guarded invitation to stay tugs again at the back of my mind, as it has incessantly since the moment she’d offered it beneath that jagged cliff.

  


_A whole winter here with her._ The thought of it makes my heart flutter in excitement.

  


“One summer I brought up this astronomy book,” she starts, and I think back to her small collection in the bunkbed room, recalling a book on constellations. “On clear nights, I would come out here with that book and try to find as many constellations as I could. I always wanted a telescope, but it’s too heavy to bring up the mountain.”

  


"Is that how you know the names of Orion's stars?"

  


"Mhmm, lots of time to burn up here as a kid and not much to do. Even less before I learned how to cut and herd. It's what I wanted to show you, actually. The constellations."

  


“Hmm,” I reply, and bring her palm to my mouth for a kiss. “Do you have a favorite?”

  


“Favorite constellation?”

  


“Yes.”

  


“I used to like the Little Dipper the best. The one at the end is Polaris or, I guess, the North Star. It's really bright and known for guiding people lost at sea. Probably the most famous star in the sky.” She takes hold of my hand and extends out our arms together, her index finger pointed towards the sky and tracing the line of the little dipper, the point of our joined limbs stopping as we land together on a bright white star. It glimmers at the edges, obscuring the darkness that surrounds it. “Any time I looked at it, I knew someone, somewhere, was looking at the same star, a million miles away.”

  


“Wow,” I say, feeling suddenly very small.

  


“No kidding. But now, I think,” she drops our hands, rolls up to her side. She brings one up to stroke at my cheek, “Orion is my favorite.”

  


She smiles and kisses me once, her gentle lips lingering for a moment before pulling away.

  


“What about his shoulder? I am missing a very important part of the constellation.”

  


“No, it’s not missing. It's in the sky.”

  


I look at her then, some parts of her face glowing blue and others bathed in shadows so dark that her features have disappeared completely. My heart swells, throbs, aches for her in an increasingly familiar way. And I think, not for the first time, that I _cannot_ leave the mountain. Cannot leave _her_. Some essential part of me lives here now and will never ever return to the lowlands. Back in Buffalo, I would live as a shell of myself. My body may be able to ride horseback all the way down to the ranch, may be able to greet Christophe with a big hug, a kiss. May be able to carry on, fulfilling all of the promises and expectations that existed before our ascent, but my heart—the very essence of me—would still be laying here, in this field, under these sparkling stars.

  


My brain fumbles through all of the possible ways I could tell Christophe, how I might explain to my dearest friend—my _husband_ —that in spite of his care for me, in spite of love shown and sacrifices made, I have fallen head over heels for someone else.

  


In one possible future, I see his face fall, I see his body close in on itself, overwhelmed in grief. In another, I see his eyes and neck and face glowing red. I see him storming out the front door, proverbial axe in hand, driven by jealousy and possession.

  


And in yet another scenario, I fantasize about the warmth of him, reassuring words and understanding. _I just want you to be happy_ , he says.

  


So, I place my focus there, willing that outcome into existence.

  


Cosima slides one hand beneath my jaw and lifts my mouth up to meet hers, breaking my thoughts with her kiss. I can feel warmth radiating from her entire body, the heaviness of contentment in my marrow. Warm breath from her nose tickles against my cheek as she breathes into me then pulls away, as if she has suddenly remembered our cold and clothed circumstances.

  


“I keep feeling like this summer will last forever,” she says, opening her eyes slowly. “It’s hard to bring myself to do the math. But I know my Daddy would send up a search crew if we waited even a few extra days.”

  


She rolls to settle again at my side, our hands still joined, fingers playing together, both of us looking up at the vastness of the sky.

  


“The more that moon fills in, the more anxious I get,” she says.

  


“Why?”

  


“Full moon means the end of the transhumance,” she tells me plainly, as if it is the most logical explanation in the world.

  


“Is that how you have been keeping track?”

  


“Partially,” she says. “Moon cycles were part of that astronomy obsession. I would follow along with it during the summers and keep track of the time. No calendars up here, so I made a game of it. I did the math a few weeks ago and we’re due to head back on a full moon.”

  


“Hmm,” I hum. I look at up at the faintly glowing orb in the sky, one sliver missing from its side. It taunts me; It dares me to stay—to watch it cyclically disappear and return again and again through fall and winter and spring.

  


Pulse thumping in my neck and my ears, I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back, reassuring. My lips separate and I wet them quickly as the words begin to force their way out. _I am coming back up here with you. I am, I promise. Any other life would be a lie._

  


“Of course, it got easier to keep track of the time once I hit puberty. Kind of like a built in body calendar,” she laughs, her tone easy and warm.

  


But the split moment in time between the end of her sentence and the beginning of my comprehension seems to stretch out and out, traveling the distance to the moon and back until it comes crashing back into my skull at blazing high speed.

  


And then I understand it all at once—her meaning and my reality.

  


My perpetual exhaustion, matched with body aches and tenderness. Morning sickness masked as guilt. A small lavender box of Modess tampons, unopened, in Cosima’s forgotten childhood bedroom.

  


_Oh my god,_ I plead. _It can’t be, it can’t be._

 

  
And as the cool, crisp mountain air turns hot and thick, suffocating my collapsed lungs, the illusion of our _forever_ slips further and further away. Until it, too, is in outer space—starring, taunting, and not quite full.

 


	23. Vingt-Trois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to darkbluecaro on tumblr for helping me with the French! You are way better than google. ;) Translation can be found at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Apologies for the length of this chapter. It’s kind of an in-betweener. Also unbeta'd because i'm a bit behind. whoops.

“Everything okay?” she asks as my body goes stiff. I pull our hands apart and sit up, wrapping my arms around my own knees. My first instinct is to curl in, protect my soft center.

 

_Oh god, oh god, no. Nothing is okay. Nothing at all._

 

I swallow hard, and the lump there scrapes down the inside of my esophagus. With eyes closed and tears burning at the corners, I feel her sit up behind me, her shoulder pressed against mine.

 

“Hey,” she prompts again, voice gentle. One hand rubs circles in the center of my back. I can nearly hear the space between her eyebrows crinkling in confusion.

 

“Yes,” I say quickly. “I just—I'm not feeling well all of a sudden. I think I need—”

 

I exhale, breath shaky. I stand suddenly, needing to move. In my haste, my boots toss up the blanket that once held us both. Fingertips on my temples, I attempt to rub away the sharp, booming tension.

 

“I need to sleep. I will feel better once I—”

 

I turn and see here there, looking up at me, arms propping her from behind, blanket scrunched up around her grip. Aside from the small flash of worry across her face (brought on by my strange behavior), I can’t help but notice how she looks so… _content_. The tip of her nose is pink from the cold, hair mussed and wavy in front of her ears. It is a comfort I shared until the moment I became aware of the life growing inside of me.

 

_Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe a lack of sleep and proper food_ , a small, reassuring voice tells me. _Maybe you’re wrong._

 

But, I know the truth.

 

I watch as it chips away at every dream I have built with her.

 

My hair is wild and knotted with tangles as I run my fingers through. It is a nervous habit and Cosima must recognize it as such because she starts to stand as well, rising to her full height, blanket bunched haphazardly in her arms. My breath is quick and sharp as sheer panic settles in.

 

It’s no secret that the romantic, stargazing mood is broken for good. And it is entirely my fault.

 

A _baby_ , my thoughts stutter. Another _being_ , brought with me unknowingly on this journey. Just as I felt myself shed the last of responsibility and guilt from LaTuque I discover that the greatest responsibility—the greatest purpose—lived within me all along. And it undeniably links me straight to Christophe.

 

I can feel the strength of those ties once again, pulling me back to Buffalo, back to La Tuque, back to that house on Rue Montcalm where Maman would tell me, _One day you will have children and you will understand that their happiness is your own._

 

_Bastard child of a cuckolding mother._ The guilt slams against me again and again until I lose my breath.

 

With the pressure of tears behind my eyes, I feel something rise up in me—a fury rolling from the soles of my feet to stomach to neck. And when it touches at the edge of my chin, I snap.

 

"J'ai juste besoin d'une minute pour penser!"

 

The words come out louder than planned, my face flushed and hot with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment.  

 

“Delphine,” she calls, quietly, her hand reaching out to rest on my arm. I don't pull away. Selfishly, I accept her comfort. “What just happened? What did I—did I say something wrong?”

 

“Non, you didn’t—You didn’t do anything wrong!” I say.

 

_Nothing wrong at all. It was me. The only fault you have is being so wonderful that I would fall in love with you._

 

_But, why did you let me fall in love with you!?_

 

“I'm sorry,” I say, turning towards the cabin, tugging my arm away from her comforting grasp. I feel her trail behind me, gait ungraceful as she trips against clumps of grass.

 

“Wait, why are you sorry? I thought we were having a nice night.”

 

“We were.”

 

“Then what's got into you?”

 

I don't answer. I can't. Not before I sort this out—calm the swirling chaos in my head. The utter confusion spins round and round, both familiar and distressing, transporting me back to the morning we found the ram—a gutted and lifeless omen. The last time I felt a cyclone this fierce was that day by the barn, the moment before I told her, _I choose you._

 

I focus my eyes on the cabin door, the front screen not quite closed and swaying in the breeze. Heart thumps loud in my throat, hair whips at my cheeks and lips. I know where I need to go. Solitude is the only place logic exists for me in these mountains. Certainly any sense of reality has become impossible in her presence.

 

When I open the door and let myself inside, Cosima is close behind. I can hear the distress in her tiny huffs. Her footsteps stop at the threshold.

 

I can feel her eyes on me as my fingers wrap around the solid knob of a forgotten door. She says nothing as I turn the handle and step quickly inside, slamming it behind me. The coarse grain of the wood glides up my back as I let myself slide down to the floor, releasing a muffled sob into the crook of my elbow.

 

“Delphine?” I hear, her gentle tone vibrating through the wall.

 

I say nothing. I clasp my hand harder across my mouth to keep in all the noise, the chaos.

 

In the smaller bedroom, the sheets are pulled up tight against the mattress, a forgotten pillow propped up against the back wall. Without undressing, I peel all of it back and slip in between, coat still buttoned up my front.

 

I hear her still at the door, shuffling back and forth, but never attempting to enter. “I don’t know what happened, but—” she pauses. “Take your time. We can talk about it in the morning.”

 

_Poor soul,_ I think. _How can I possibly tell her? I will break her heart._

 

The thought of it breaks mine in tandem.

 

She steps away and I hear her footfalls fade. I hear the other bedroom door click shut.

 

And, messily, I count backwards to the possible date of conception. Nearly three months in the mountains with a wedding less than a month before that puts me at… 15 weeks? A February baby. Due date must be less than six months away.

 

And as my amorphus understanding of time suddenly becomes solid and demanding, the once daydreamed life crumples down around me into a dust so fine it could be easily swept away by a breeze.

 

I wrap my arms tighter around myself, bury my face into the pillow, and welcome the oncoming grief.

 

_If you can’t fight it, might as well embrace it._

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the sun comes up, I haven't slept a wink. The skin around my eyes and at the tops of my cheeks burn with exhaustion and tears. The sobs ebbed and flowed over the hours, rising with the swells of impossible thoughts and soothing with remaining tendrils of fantasy—images of Cosima stuck in the back of my mind. The ones I can’t yet give up.

 

When I feel brave enough, I roll from the bed, still fully clothed and boots on my feet. I open the door.

 

Cosima stands in the kitchen as if she has been waiting there for me, eyes immediately fixed on mine. The sight of her would have sent another sob up my frame if I hadn’t already cried them all out.

 

“Delphine,” she says, and I pause at the crack in her voice. “What did I do?”

 

She stands there, her head tilted to the side, her bottom lip jutted out slightly and shivering with emotion. Her arms are folded in front of her chest, closed and protective. So polar opposite from the weeks before when her arms always loose and open, the shape of her mouth drawn into a warm smile.

 

“Nothing,” I say, taking a step toward her. “Nothing, ma cherie.” The broken look on her face, her guarded stance—suddenly I am filled with the urge to take her in my arms again, to feel her pressed tight against me for every possible remaining moment. So, I do. I step forward and pull at the back of her arms until mine are wrapped around her middle. Her body is stiff at first, but after only a moment, she melts into me. Her head falls forward and rests against my shoulder. She sighs. And she is so warm.

 

“Then what's going on?”

 

“It's me—I _freaked out_ ,” I say, the American colloquialism strange in my mouth. I feel guilty for keeping this, but I know in my gut that I am not yet ready to tell her. I need to hold onto this world we have built for just a little while longer. But at least I can admit my fear. “I'm scared, Cosima.”

 

“We’ll figure this out. One step at a time, right?” she tells me, smiling even as a couple of stray tears gloss together at the corners of her eyes. But her gaze shines bright still, even in the impossibility of our circumstances.

 

And it gives me hope.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J'ai juste besoin d'une minute pour penser! = I just need a minute to think!


	24. Vingt-Quatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG you guys. this is unbeta'd bc i waited till the last fucking second. fuck. 
> 
> i may have to switch to an every-other friday schedule bc a lot of life is happening. i'm going to try to post more frequently than bi-weekly, but i am /drainedddd/.
> 
> i'm sorry. forgive me.

Her hand is laced with mine as she pulls me forward across the lawn. Rain pelts us in the face while we run, drenched and shivering, from barn to cabin. I watch the blurry outline of her body through squinted eyes, lashes heavy and water-logged.

 

The storm started on our way home, dark clouds settling over the highlands and commencing an abrupt downpour. The sheep kicked their pace into gear and the dogs worked double time to keep the herd in order. We made it back just in time for sunset and now the mountains are blanketed in a twilight glow that will soon turn to black.

 

Every part of me is miserably soaking wet. My jeans and shirts stick uncomfortably to my skin, constricting as we run together, her hand pulling and guiding as my body follows close behind. I can hear her laugh cut through the white noise just before and after a crack of thunder; a sudden flash of lightning flickers through the sky.

 

When we reach the porch, she quickly swings open the front door and pulls me inside with a great tug. Our bodies slam together. She uses the momentum and swings me around her in a perfect obit until my back is pressed against the wall and she has me pinned with her smaller frame.

 

And when she kisses me, it’s harsh. Fierce. Her mouth is open and her tongue demands entrance and strokes roughly against mine. And I let her, tasting her in equal measure, reveling in the heat of her mouth against cold lips and cheeks. She kisses me like she knows that today was different than all of the days before. Like she knows they are numbered.

 

At least this is what I tell myself. Because the thought of her _not_ knowing, even on some level, is too hard to bear.

 

She bites down roughly on my bottom lip and sucks it into her mouth. Her eyes are closed. Her whole body leans against mine, anchoring me in place. She doesn’t let go of the lip in her possession until she hears me gasp in pain.

 

“You know what I want?” she husks, running her wet nose up the side of mine. The rain water mingles together and trails to the tip of my nose. “You know what I really _need_ to do right now?” She reaches a hand between our pelvises and twists until the top button of my jeans pops open. Muscles clench in a rolling wave down my frame and bring with it a rush of heat. I can feel her breath on my cheek.

 

“Tell me what you want,” I groan, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, tugging at the tiny, loose hairs that grow wild there.

 

I don’t mean to lead her on further, but wanting her has become second nature. And I know that I will pay dearly for developing such an addictive habit.

 

“I want,” she smiles, eyes hooded, “to draw you. Like this, _just like this._ ”

 

The heat that her words evoke inside nearly cuts through the iciness of rain-soaked clothing. I can’t help it. I kiss her again. Gentler this time, teeth grazing the edges of her mouth. She sighs and groans as I pull away.

 

“I am a mess,” I protest in a whisper. “My hair _—_ ”

 

“You have never been more beautiful than you are right now,” she corrects, and guides her hands up to hold the sides of my face, rests our foreheads together. “You're glowing.”

 

I feel her hands trail down and slip between us again, making quick work of the tight, sticky fabric as she rolls it over my hips and down my thighs. She kneels in front of me, tugging the clothes from my body and I bend to help her finish the job, jerking my legs up and out of the finger-trap garment. She stands to undress my upper half as I peel wet socks from one foot with the toes of the other. Off comes my jacket, my shirt, my bra. And in the midst of it all, I have managed to get her down to her bra and underwear as well, wet strands of hair leaving watery trails across the tops of her shoulders.

 

She wraps her arms around my waist and pulls my naked body into her, the lace of her bra rough against my chest. As she leads me backward to the couch, her lips never leave mine _—_ her kiss like that of an oxygen-starved creature. And when my knees hit the edge of the cushion, she falls with me, her arm catching on the back to keep her body hovering over mine. After a few more twists of her tongue, she lifts up abruptly and squats near the wood stove, quickly loading it with kindling and a few larger logs before starting it with a match. I watch the sinewy muscles of her back ripple as she stands. And without a word, she ducks quickly into the small bunkbed room.

 

In her absence, I self-consciously adjust myself on the couch, feeling perhaps more exposed in front of her than I ever have before. A soft slope has grown present on my lower abdomen _—_ my body swelling to protect perhaps the only part of me that does not belong to her. I rest a hand over it, soothing. I attempt to disguise the slight change to my figure that is likely imperceptible to anyone but myself and my hypervigilant guilt.

 

When Cosima returns with a pad of paper and a pencil, she tugs over a rickety wooden chair from the kitchen and sits down, still clad in her undergarments. And when she looks up at me, her eyes squint first and then soften into a loving gaze. She lets out a long breath. Like she’s been holding it for weeks.

 

“Your body is always changing; there is always something new. Like I’m seeing you for the first time,” she says softly, the side of her hand already stroking across the page. Already drawing this memory, solidifying and validating this moment in her life.

 

And if we have nothing else at the end of it all, we will at least have this. This work of art. This moment.

 

And, right now, I am exactly as she sees me.

 

Minutes pass in comfortable relative silence. Nothing but the scratch of graphite against paper and wood popping in the stove sounds between us. Her eyes bounce between me and the pad, and I can’t help but feel that she sees _all_ of me, so skilled at reading my most private thoughts from the very beginning. I squirm beneath her knowing gaze, adjusting myself again and again. She smirks, but continues. “I could draw a portrait of you every night, and they would all be inspired,” she says. “I hope you’ll give me the chance.”

 

And I can nearly feel my heart swell at her sweet words as she shares yet another vulnerable part of herself. My mind races for _any_ solution to, as Cosima would call this, a _bitch of an unsatisfactory situation_. Do I lie to Christophe? End the pregnancy? Leave the newborn child with him and run away? Fake my death?

 

That last thought coaxes exasperated laughter from my mouth. Guilt and foolishness swirl up around me as I vow to never share these sick solutions with another soul. Cosima looks at me, her hand still moving.

 

“You okay?” she asks, her eyes drifting over my naked form, her lust obvious. She sighs to herself as her eyes rise up to meet my gaze again.

 

“Yes, I was just thinking…”

 

Her hand moves steadily in short, light strokes. Fingertips run against the paper, blending harsh lines smooth.

 

“Yeah? About what?” she smirks.

 

“How this is the last thing I imagined would come out of moving to Wyoming,” I lie. But, it earns a laugh. And it’s not _un_ true.

 

“Yeah? Well this is the last place I thought we would end up that first time I saw you, covered in placenta.” I laugh. She’s witty and I love her for it. “I thought my days of drawing postcoitial female nudes were done for.”

 

“Technically, this doesn’t count.”

 

“Hmm?” She says absently, looking up from her sketch pad.

 

“We have not just had sex.”

 

“Post… pre… the difference is but another few minutes,” she winks. “Almost done.”

 

_Precoitial_ , I think, pondering how many more _pre_ s the universe will allow us until I have nothing but _post_ s. Postcoitial. Post highlands. Post transhumance.

 

Post Cosima.

 

And at that thought, my need for her rises higher, explodes hotter than it ever has before. The end of summer draws nearer, ticking away, too close for comfort. And I rise to battle against it. I rise and before I know it, I’m pulling the paper from her grip and kissing her hard. She startles at first, but warms quickly beneath my touch. Her mouth falls open with little encouragement, and in no time at all I am catching her tiny moans at the back of my throat.

 

Her arms rise to wrap around my shoulders, to pull me down flush against her. But, instead, I kneel before her, her knees parting to make room. Our lips break apart when she leans back against the chair and lifts her hips for me, an invitation.

 

The simple fabric rolls easily down her legs and I abandon it at her ankles in favor of trailing wet kisses across her abdomen, her thighs, her hips. I take in the taste of her skin, the warmth. I flex my fingers against the flesh of her hips. And when I look up at her, mid belly-kiss, her eyes are closed and her mouth is open, tiny sighs and groans escaping in time with the heaving of her chest _—_ a perfect image of desire.

 

“Please, baby,” she sighs as her fingers weave through my hair and pull me closer, nose smashed against the bottom of her ribcage. I can smell her desire, thick and intoxicating. I can feel the tension of her thighs at my sides, one foot tugging at the small of my back.

 

Every part of her grips at every part of me, pulling me under the surface for so long that the internal scream for oxygen fades into a faint whisper that is easily ignored. Her entire being displaces my every sense until all I can feel and hear and taste is her. And, drunk on her presence, I can focus only on the wiry hair against my nose, the salt of her staining my tongue, her arousal coating the corners of my mouth.

 

Nothing else is real. Nothing else matters.

 

She trembles beneath my mouth and I feel a row of nails dig into the top of one shoulder. She pants, she cries—tiny whimpers escaping as she thrusts into me. The chair creaks. One thigh slips over my shoulder, offering a more complete angle to taste her. So, I suck her sex between my lips, tongue twisting against the rigid center of her pleasure, then dipping lower to the softness inside.

 

I taste her as if this is my last chance. I collect every sensation and file it away to that place where only we will ever exist.

 

“Christ!” she whines. The rough of my tongue toys with the most sensitive part of her, quick and light, how I have learned she likes it best. My eyes are closed, breath harsh from my nose.

 

The wet noises of my mouth working her body blend in with the rest of our symphony. Crackling fire, muttered whimpers. A creaking chair. Her whole body tightens, a bow drawn back and ready to shoot.

 

“I love you!” she yells, and arches forward. My eyes fling open at her words, their meaning, and the fact that she chose this moment—of all possible moments—to say them. But hers are still pinched shut, her hands holding my head tight against her core. I watch her body strain to find release, the thigh on my shoulder rising up to her chest, until finally her jaw falls slack and shoulders shudder forward. Her taste changes; I feel her pulse boom against my tongue.

 

“Oh!” she cries, letting it out. Her grip turns loose on my head and her thigh relaxes, then falls from my shoulder. “God, I love you,” she says again, softer this time. My tongue moves in soothing strokes over her sensitive skin, delaying the moment I am able to answer her confession. Her gaze lazily trails down from the ceiling to meet mine between trembling thighs. Both honey-colored eyes are glazed over, cheeks rosy, a satisfied smile at the corner of her mouth.

 

I press a wet kiss to her center, then the inside of one thigh, then the other. One of her hands cups my cheek and guides me up, thumb stroking my upper lip until she meets me in a kiss, light and playful. She guides herself off of the chair and into my lap, arms and legs wrapping around me like tentacles.

 

“Cosima…” I say, feeling as though I owe her a response, but am unsure of least painful choice. _Je t’aime, je t’aime aussi_ is what I wish to say—the words that have been sitting heavy at the back of my tongue.

 

I pull her tight to me and lean forward to rest her back against the rug. The shadows on her face dance between fire-colored hues.

 

"It’s okay,” she says, letting me off the proverbial hook, gripping her arms against the back of my neck. “Tell me what you want."

 

"And you will give it to me?" I say.

 

"No. Then you can take it. It's yours."

 

Then she rocks up into me and I feel her, warm and wet against me. A surge of lust runs from head to toes.

 

If I didn’t know what I wanted before, there is no doubt any longer.

 

As I draw her hands into mine and pin them hard against the floor, I wonder how we’ve never done this before. My breasts graze hers, our bellies sliding, leg muscles tensing and fighting against each other. Her thighs cradle my hips, open wide. Every slow thrust is countered with one from her in reply until we are suddenly moving faster, bodies singing in tandem. I push aside all thoughts of what lives and grows between us.

 

I let her hands go and hold myself up over her frame. Sparks of pleasure have started to burn and smoke from the places we’re connected. Flint and steel and friction. Her nails rake up and down my back, stopping to dig into the flesh of my hips when her head tips back in bliss.

 

“Merde!” I say, the expletive slipping out unconsciously as her pace increases and the tension builds in my groin.

 

She tips her head up, eyes wide open, mouth parted to make way for the noises that slip from her as well.

 

“I love you,” she says again, looking straight into my eyes. This time she doesn’t allow me to look away.

 

And I can’t bear it.

 

On reflex, I cover her mouth with my hand.

 

“Shhh,” I hush. Her eyes flutter closed. And in a split second, she sucks two fingers into her mouth, her tongue running in hot velvet strokes against the sides and between them. The sensation catches me off guard. I collapse forward, overwhelmed by her many assaults on my nervous system.

 

Then, I’m on my back. Cosima pulls wet fingers from her mouth and bends down to bury her face in my belly—an act she has certainly done before. But, this time I know the reality of what lies beneath. A tiny heart, a tiny life.

 

She looks up, resting her chin on my pelvis as she slips inside, her fingers reaching as deep as she can. She moans to herself when she feels me around her. She always does. And when she starts moving—firm and steady—my body shivers and my breath gets caught in my throat. Course rug beneath me, I bunch it in my palms to anchor us into place. My head spins, a globe on a pin. Completely overwhelmed.

 

“I know you love me, too,” she says, voice rough. I tilt my head up to meet her demanding voice, her gaze full of lust and love and hurt. “Say it,” she commands. “Say it, Delphine!”

 

I can’t deny her. I never could.

 

“Je t’aime!” I yelp.

 

And all at once, the words I have kept hiding away are suddenly loose, spinning in the chaos of confessions. My body jerks with the force of every thrust, her hand pulling me to the edge, coaxing a small trickle of pleasure into a raging river.

 

“Then stay with me,” she groans.

 

_I can’t, I can’t!_

 

“Je ne peux pas!” I confess, hoping quietly that she has not picked up as much French as I thought. But my fear is confirmed when her hand stops, when she slips out of me and sits up. Not one part of her body touches mine; everything that was once burning hot is now icy and hollow.

 

And I know.

 

_She knows_.

 

“When were you going to tell me?”

 

“Tell you...?”

 

“I’m not an idiot, Delphine. I _know_.” Her eyes glance down to my abdomen. Exposed, translucent, I am. Always with her X ray eyes. Always one step ahead of me.

 

I should have known.

 

I sit up. I want to reach for her, but my arms scoot me back from her instead. “Please tell me you’re still gonna stay,” she pleads. Her lip quivers and I think I might be sick. “We can still do this. He doesn't have to know!”

 

_It's his child! It would be cruel,_ my mind screams.

 

“I can’t,” I say.

 

“Please don’t leave me,” she begs. “I love you.”

 

And I recognize this moment as her final plea. The sight of her tugs at my most tender parts. Already, she is sniffling, holding back a great sob. An identical one forms in my throat, tight and dry.

 

I want to say so many things.

 

I want to say, _I have never loved anyone the way I love you._

 

I want to say, _I already love this child. I can’t abandon it. And I can’t keep it from Christophe._

 

I want to say, _I’ve thought this through from a million angles and all of them leave me twisted in knots._

 

I want to say it all, but I don’t. I just stare, caught in self-inflicted purgatory, mouth gaping open and closed like a fish flopping on the shore.

 

Cosima wipes at her tears with naked palms. She sniffles as she stands and angles her body away from mine. “Okay,” she whispers, and clears her throat. “I’m leaving for the lowlands in the morning. You can come or stay up here and hide from your decisions.” The outline of her body turns blurry from the tears that sting and burn there. Over her shoulder, she says, “Do what you want. I don’t care anymore.”

 

Tossed to the side, I see the sketch pad. Blurry and dark, but I can barely make out the outline of my figure, features drawn softly and with great care. One hand rests just below my belly button, delicate and protective.

 

When she closes the bedroom door, the cold creep of emptiness trails up my fingers and toes until my chest echoes like a great marble hall. Cut in half, all of my softest parts scooped out.

 

And I did this to myself.

  
  



	25. Vingt-Cinq

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guysssssss.
> 
> thanks for being so supportive of me slowing down on updates :D i hope the quality/length of this chapter makes up for the extra week!
> 
> as always, i love to know what you think! i'm planning to reply to all of the comments that have been sitting in my inbox for the past 2 weeks tomorrow morning!!
> 
> y'all are the best.

 

That morning I was pulled from a dream of peaceful dancing grass by the scream of a telephone, everything changed.

  
  


I have thought about that moment so many times; I’ve wondered: _if only that lamb’s legs were straight, if that ewe had never become pregnant, if Ms. Violet would have been available instead, would I have ended up here?_ One moment, one phone call, and nothing could ever be the same again.

  
  


And now, as I feel the steady clomp of Scott’s muscular frame beneath me, I think—not for the first time—that perhaps my whole life has lead me right to her. Every little turn and twist guided me on the unlikely journey to her barn, her cabin, her love.

  
  


Early this morning as we each packed quietly and cleaned our rooms, as we saddled the horses and filled their satchels with uneaten food, as we avoided sharing words almost entirely—I finally felt the magnetic pull of cosmic forces weaken their hold on us. _We tried_ , they say. _We really did._ And despite the valiant effort of impossible odds, here I am, halfway home with not one warm glance between us.

  
  


I watch Cosima at the head of the herd, leaning forward against Twist’s mane, guiding him with rough movements. She broke him this summer—his once wild personality now much more demure. The yellow mass of livestock trails behind her in slow motion, the dogs not quite as colorful as they once were. The sheep hesitant.

  
  


Reality of our descent hits me like the shrill ring of a telephone, sobering and loud. More awake than I’ve been in months, I shake the fog from my head, the dancing grass from my unconscious. The ceremony of it is like waking from a dream. Suddenly the world is clearer, but darker. Sensical, but hopeless.

  
  


The dreamy mist is gone and everything is sharply, sadly in focus.

  
  


I run my fingers along the leather reins, feel the weight of them. I wrap them tight around my knuckles, then let them fall loose. And as we near the end of our journey I say a quiet goodbye to Scott, my other companion in all of this, by a firm pat against his massive shoulder.

  
  


I thought this morning that my mind would be racing for the full five hour ride, but instead I find my head slow and distracted, thoughts coming and fleeting quickly, leaving me no time to meditate or obsess over them. And I stay that way the entire trip, staring hollowly at the spot between Cosima’s shoulders and the back of her head. When she looks back to check on our progress, her eyes linger on the herd. Never me. Not once.

  
  


When the barn comes into view, Cosima is already dismounting Twist, shaking out her legs in that way she always does. A scattered field of sheep walks between us, each following the one before it into a great pen to the left of the homestead. Ennis walks down the farmhouse steps, his cotton shirt tucked neatly into the top of his jeans, brown leather vest hanging over his shoulders.

  
  


He meets his kin at Twist’s side and I watch as he pulls her into a great hug, the two of them chatting in an animated fashion. I free Scott of his heavy satchels and saddle, then set him free to roam in the pen. Cautiously, I approach the father and daughter who resemble each other so well.

  
  


“You gals back early or do I have my dates wrong?” he asks me, laughing. “I hope the summer wasn't too bad. The weather can be frightful at times.”

  
  


“The cabin was getting too small for the both of us,” she explains. And it's true enough. “Why don't you go call your husband? Tell him we’re back. I'm sure he’ll be glad to hear from you.”

  
  


Cosima ends the phrase with a bite, turns her back to me as she unloads a satchel from Twist’s side and sets it on the ground. Ennis stares at his daughter’s back then shifts his gaze to me. Teeth worrying my bottom lip, I find a spot on the floor and focus on it intently.

  
  


“Telephone’s in the kitchen, darlin’. Help yourself.”

  
  


His voice is warm. And though his timbre is quite lower, the kindness in it reminds me of Cosima’s. The way she spoke to me that first morning in the barn—the way she soothed me in all those anxious moments.

  
  


“Thank you,” I reply, shivering from the residual chill in her voice. Tears bite at the corners of my eyes. I take a gulp of air, will myself to hold it together long enough to arrange a ride.

  
  


Cosima’s family kitchen is just as I remember it, if a little messy. It's old and charming. I can still see her dancing between the counters, fixing her batter, attempting to stop Ennis from inviting me along for the summer. Maybe she knew. Maybe she saw my sorry, conflicted soul coming miles away.

  
  


I find the phone easily, the yellowed cord tangled together in tight coils. I take a shaky breath and spin the rotary to dial our home line. It rings twice. I half expect no one to answer, but my ear is quickly full of a familiar voice.

  
  


“Hello?” he says, happily.

  
  


“Christophe—”

  
  


“Delphine?”

  
  


“It's me. I'm back early, can you come get me?” I say, the hurried French natural on my lips. I’ve missed it.

  
  


“At the ranch?”

  
  


“Oui,” I say, and gulp back a sob.

  
  


“Are you okay?”

  
  


“Oui.”

  
  


He pauses, suspicious of my unconvincing answer.

  
  


“Okay,” he relents. “I will be there soon.”

  
  


“Merci,”

  
  


“Wait—Delphine?”

  
  


“Hmm?”

  
  


“I missed you. I'm happy you're back.” I can hear the faint sound of his breath, the smile on his lips.

  
  


I don't deserve it. And I can't bear it for a second more.

  
  


“See you soon,” I say, and slam the phone back on its hook. My fist hits the wall hard enough to shake a picture from the nail it’s balanced on. The whole thing falls to the floor, glass splintering and scattering on the hardwood. “ _Merde_!” I yell to myself, and hit the wall again. I kneel to gather the shards in my trembling hands. I set all of the broken pieces atop the photo and back away from it slowly.

  
  


Yet another bit of damage left in my wake.

  
  


When I walk out from the house and down the porch steps and toward the barn, I see her. She carrys two large satchels across her shoulders, her frame hunched over to bear the weight. She slips into the small shed behind the barn—the place she’d lent me the hat. The place she’d told me she had no one special to miss.

  
  


I wonder if she will miss me. If she will think of me at all after today. Or, instead, scrub me from her mind. Shred the last three months of memories.

  
  


I walk closer to the shed. I hear her inside, shuffling things around, replacing tools borrowed for our trip.

  
  


_This is it_ , I think. _This is my last chance. I need her to know that what I want and what I must do can never coexist._

  
  


She doesn't hear me as I stand in the doorway. Or maybe she does. Maybe she hears me perfectly fine.

  
  


“He's coming,” I say. She doesn't startle.

  
  


“Good,” she replies, monotone.

  
  


“Cosima, can we just— _talk_ about this?”

  
  


“What is there to talk about?” she asks, her voice low and bored. She doesn't turn around. She pulls out the satchel’s contents one by one, organizing them across the countertop.

  
  


“About what happens now? About what I am supposed to do with the past three months?”

  
  


“Forget it.”

  
  


“Please,” I say, because it's my turn to beg now. “I can't pretend it didn't happen.”

  
  


“Could have fooled me.”

  
  


“Cosima—”

  
  


She spins then, lightning fast, her face already fixed in a scowl.

  
  


“Look, if you're not gonna be with me, _let me go!_ I don't need your goddamn pity.” Her eyes light up as she speaks, but not with warmth and affection—the kind of light to which I have grown accustomed. This light burns like fire, licking and scorching until I am smoking and charred at the edges. She looks away again, turning her back to me. I watch her ribs constrict during exhale through her thick flannel shirt. Her whole body jerks as she continues to remove the tools and slam them on the table. "I won't run after you, Delphine,” she says, her voice strained and trembling. “I can't spend my life pining away for someone who doesn't want me. You made a choice and I will respect it, hard as it is. But, for my own sanity, I can't be here in this town, knowing you're only miles away.”

  
  


_She’s leaving._

  
  


My heart drops again. It must be beneath the ground by now.

  
  


"Where will you go?"

  
  


"That's none of your business anymore," she says dismissively, her back still turned.

  
  


"You have to understand!" I beg, needing her to know that this is _anything but easy_ , needing her to know _how goddamn hard this is_. I reach out to grab her shoulder, to turn her around, but she shrugs away and turns herself instead, leaning her body up against the edge of the counter, bent away from me.

  
  


"No. I don't _have_ to do anything,” she yells, her small frame suddenly shivering with rage. “ _Don't you get it_ , Delphine? I offered myself to you and you said _no_. I don't owe you a goddamn thing!"

  
  


“If I could make this different—if I could make it right— _I would_. You have to know that!”

  
  


“None of this is right. It's all fucked up. When we—” she lowers her voice. She leans toward me, her gaze fierce. “When we made love, when we were together... _that_ was right. _This_ , though. This is bullshit. You know it and so do I.”

  
  


“I'm sorry,” I cry because I know she’s right.

  
  


“Don't you get it? It doesn't matter. Whatever happened between us belongs to the mountains now. It was never really ours to begin with."

  
  


I think of that day near the beginning, her body hovering behind mine as we swung the lasso together, her breath on my shoulder. I remember the wild tree stump we used for practice and the wildebeest it became when we caught it. At that time, I was only just beginning to understand the hold she had on me: the magnetic, impossible force pulling our lives together. I would give anything to be back there right now, feeling the first buds of our love begin to sprout.

  
  


A knock at the door diffuses the tension as Ennis walks into the shed, his presence demanding a jarring shift in tone. Cosima sighs, her shoulders droop from their high-strung state.

  
  


“Is he comin’?” he asks me. “I can give you a ride into town if need be.”

  
  


“No, it's okay. He is on his way,” I reply.

  
  


Cosima turns and looks up at me then, face carved from stone, and extends out her hand. "It was a real pleasure working with you.”

  
  


And it takes every bit of strength left to hold back the gut-wrenching scream of agony that rises up in me like a reflex. This time, there is no tremble of her lip, there is no crack in her dam. She is steel and stone, and the sight of it breaks me again and again.

  
  


She wants me to leave now, and this is her goodbye. Forced pleasantries, a distinct lack of warmth. This is the closure she offers. But I am still one large gaping wound, selfishly expecting the person I’ve hurt to comfort and reassure me.

  
  


“A real pleasure,” I agree, forcing my cheeks into a smile, taking her hand in mine for the last time. I feel the weight of it, memorize the small callouses on the inside of her knuckles. And when I squeeze, she loosens her grip and pulls her hand away.

  
  


And then I’m empty.

  
  


She turns to continue unpacking the bag and her face is gone from me forever.

  
  


Suddenly, we are nothing but _post_.

  
  


The act of leaving is a blur of pleasantries with Ennis, an exchange of wages, a brief goodbye. A single high-pitched tone drowns out every bit of it as I nod and smile along, swallowing down the dry lump that has formed in the back of my throat. In a terrible haze, I start down the long trail of dirt leading from barn to main road, knowing faintly that my path will intersect at some point with Christophe’s.

  
  


But as soon as I pass the tree line, my breath comes faster, harsher, until I am bent at the waist, heaving beneath the weight of this moment, this summer. Bile burns and creeps up the back of my esophagus. The high-pitched tone still cuts through, now with chaotic white noise surrounding it. I fall to my hands and knees, eyes watering and hyper-focused on a single blade of grass.

  
  


_Mon dieu, mon dieu, what have I done!?_

  
  


Every moment Cosima and I have shared passes quickly through my mind’s eye, all of those memories I have held as precious. They play and play in a continuous loop, remembered sound drowned out by the ear-splitting volume of a constant hum.

  
  


_Only yesterday she was mine. How did this happen? How did I get here?_

  
  


“Delphine?” I hear, and the high tone ceases sharply. I snap back my head and Christophe is there, standing over me, helping me stand upright. “Are you okay?”

  
  


_How is he possibly here already? How long have I been sitting here staring at this blade grass?_

  
  


“Did you fall?” His voice is low and worried. “You look unwell.” He holds me to his chest and I lean against his sturdy frame, rest my head atop the curve of his shoulder. I notice that he looks painfully, exactly the same. Dark hair combed neatly, face clean-shaven. He smells like he always does, warm and musky. And I realize that for all the changes I have endured, he has stayed the same. His life on pause in my absence, resuming right at this moment.

  
  


“I'm pregnant,” I say, a sorry explanation for my current state. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I—”

  
  


“Quoi?!” He says, his smile growing wider, his arms around me squeezing more firmly. “We’re having a baby?”

  
  


“You're not mad?”

  
  


“Why would I be mad?” he asks. “This is fantastic news!”

  
  


He kisses me then, my head craned sideways, the pressure on my lips unexpected. And I kiss him back, feeling the harsh stubble of his upper lip against mine, pulling me back into the reality occupied by him and Maman and LaTuque and, eventually, an infant.

  
  


The whole drive home, his hand rests on my thigh or in between my palms, his deep voice carrying on excitedly with plans and doctor’s appointments and things we will need to buy for the future. For _our_ future together.

  
  


“Your mother would be so happy, so proud,” he tells me.

  
  


And by the time we pull into the driveway, dusk has already fallen. The moon glows full and bright in the sky, coming to the middle of its lunar cycle. It is not as large as it was a few nights ago, stargazing in the middle of the mountains, Cosima curled up against my side. It looks so much further away tonight.

  
  


And when he leads me into the house, I see that time for him has not _paused_ as I’d envisioned, rather he was still moving forward, in the direction of _me and us and family_.

  
  


The walls are freshly painted in soft, clean white. Shelves and photos occupy walls around new furniture, with cushions embroidered in small leaves and flowers.  A new wooden table sits in the kitchen with fresh flowers in the center.

  
  


“It’s beautiful,” I say. And it is.

 

  
It is not a cabin in the mountains with snow on the sills. But it’s beautiful.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to trylonandperisphere, thecirclesquare, arabybizarre, Erica (cophinesandwich), OTP324b21, OBCrack, and Jaybear1701 for all things beta - offering support and helping strengthen the writing and story. I am thankful for all of your suggestions and insight :)


End file.
